


On the Other Side of the Mirror

by Zaniida



Series: Mature Readers Only [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags in End Note, Angst, Asexuality, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Denise's Delight, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Care, Rape By Proxy, anal rape, body shame, emotional reactions, unusual reactions to rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: Someone was forcing John to do things here, thought Harold.  They had leverage on him.  So if John didn’t do what he was doing right now, something worse would happen.And this wasn’t just locking the two of them in a room and ordering them to have sex.  That, in and of itself, was rape, but this?  This was meant tofeel likerape… with John in the role of the rapist.





	1. Alarming Conclusions

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One Way Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/757350) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 
  * Inspired by [One Way Glass: Shattered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218404) by [idinink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink). 



> Primary content warnings have been left in the tags list; for those who need more specific warnings, check the notes at the end of this chapter. Hope that system works out; if not, please let me know and I'll adjust my technique again to compensate ^_^
> 
> _Many thanks to my beta reader, AreiaCananaid._
> 
> I first read "One Way Glass: Shattered" (by idinink) and then eventually found the original "One Way Glass" (by astolat). While I enjoyed both fics, eventually I labeled them to myself as "fluffy rape" (astolat's "now it's consensual so let's have fun" fic) and "oh dear GOD rape" (idinink's the reason I learned the term "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat").
> 
> It struck me that there ought to be a middle ground, and so here we are: Not John's POV, but Harold's; neither consensual nor over-the-top gory, but still rape, not just by definition but by feel and in the minds of both characters.
> 
> I hope I've managed to make clear and reasonable how Harold comes to his conclusions, and why John doesn't try some of the tricks that in idinink's version get him in trouble.
> 
> The other detail of note is that while I appreciate the John/Harold dynamic, I thought it would be interesting to explore this scenario when they _don't_ have any sexual interest in each other. So this is from an intimate Platonic friendship, and Harold is graysexual.

Harold sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead at the door, focused on his breathing because he'd run out of data to analyze. Well, and steady breathing helped a bit with the pain, but that was a secondary concern. Even on a good day, he had to put up with a certain level of steady discomfort; being manhandled into the back of a van and pressed to the floor while it drove too fast over potholes... that had taken a lot out of him.

The nearly featureless room he’d been escorted to, hours ago, offered next to nothing in the way of information on why he was here or what was going to happen. Besides the bed (simple, small; cheap blanket and no pillow) and a nightstand, the only other notable component was a mirror to his left that took up nearly the entire wall. He’d discarded the idea of an abandoned police station because the architecture was all wrong, but that mirror was almost certainly one-way glass.

Whoever was on the other side, Harold refused to look their way. He still felt the men’s hands on his arms, the clutch of his stomach as they lifted him off his feet, the way he’d flinched as one of them reached for his earbud and another pulled the cell phone from his pocket. The relentless, suffocating terror as the black hood came down, intensified when he heard the crunch of a cell phone under someone’s foot.

Once or twice he’d tried to ask questions, but they ignored him. At some point he’d realized that his abductors hadn’t said so much as a single word in his presence since they’d grabbed him.

Doing what they did, he and John made enemies, of course they did. But he was speculating from nothing here, unable to form even useful hypotheses; when he’d realized he was just running circles in his mind, he’d given up trying. Whoever had him, he wasn’t about to play the frantic rat in their maze. He deliberately ignored the thought of going through the nightstand drawers, and just sat there, silent, breathing through the pain. He could wait it out, with what quiet dignity he could muster, until something about the situation changed.

 

When the door cracked open and John came in, Harold let out a shaky breath, tension draining from his body automatically. They had been out of contact for hours, but somehow John had found him; John was here, and the situation was under control.

Then John strode right across the room, face grim, and just as Harold was getting to his feet John put hands on his shoulders and pushed him down to the bed again. The sudden unexpected resistance made Harold’s back scream, and he gasped in pain, looking up at John, eyes wide.

As skilled as John was at masking emotions, Harold had gotten pretty good at reading some of his tells. The undercurrent of rage was palpable, barely hidden; Harold didn’t for a moment imagine that the rage was directed at him. The slightest hint of fear, that was harder to pick up on, but the real surprise was the layer of thick disgust. All of that, combined with John’s most steely get-it-done face, the expression he defaulted to when everything went south and he needed to focus his entire being on the job at hand, one step at a time.

“Oh,” said Harold, softly, “it’s not over yet, is it?”

John’s hands slid in from Harold’s shoulders and started loosening his tie. Brows drawn together, Harold tried to make sense of this: Harold wasn’t choking, obviously, and John had a tie of his own if he needed one… maybe one of his abductors had planted a tracker or a bug? That could account for John staying silent until he’d neutralized the threat.

It didn’t fit. John was refusing to meet his eyes. Ashamed, maybe? What had happened during the hours they’d been apart? Had John gotten a new Number, failed to save them? Or… maybe he had had to choose between saving a Number and saving Harold, and had come to save Harold, even knowing Harold wouldn’t approve. But that hypothesis didn’t mesh with the level of disgust… and if it were a particularly vulnerable target, like a child, John would never have put Harold first.

At least one notion could be discarded: John just tossed the tie on the bed, not bothering to examine it or even glance that way. No bug. That left… nothing useful, nothing obvious. He needed more data.

“John?” he queried, searching his partner’s face. “What… what’s going on?”

John started unbuttoning his collar. Startled, Harold caught at his hands reflexively, but John slapped him away _hard_ ; Harold froze, watching the anger surface for just a moment before it was gone.

Suddenly Harold had data again. The conclusions it was pointing toward were… somewhat alarming, especially when John confirmed them by starting down the buttons of his shirt. But at least now he had some idea of what was going on. He dropped his arms to his sides and then, perfectly still, gaze steady on John’s face, let his mind race through possibilities.

Someone was forcing John to do things here; they had leverage on him. So if John didn’t do what he was doing right now, something worse would happen. What was it?

The straightforward answer -- “do it or die” -- fell a bit flat. Perhaps their captors had threatened to torture them instead? No. Harold’s little enterprise had no shortage of enemies who wanted them dead, who might relish a few screams before the end, but most of them wouldn’t be this… creative.

Unbidden, his mind jumped to one particularly creative enemy, and some of the pieces fell into place, forming a disturbingly plausible hypothesis. Less than a week ago, they’d taken down a major operation, razed it to the ground and salted the earth; Elias couldn’t be happy about that. And despite their pleasant exchanges over the chessboard, despite the frequent advice and occasional helping hand, despite Elias’s stated admiration for them and most of the work they did, Harold had never been foolish enough to consider him an _ally_.

Small wonder John was accepting this: Elias knew how to turn the screws. This tactic was… odd, and Harold couldn’t parse the reasoning for it, but he intuited the leverage: Elias was threatening someone. It was the most effective move against either of them; Root had even called it Harold’s flaw. And Elias, like Root, was pretty good at finding those pressure points.

So if John didn’t do this, someone else was going to suffer for it; John was acting to allay the threat the only way he could. If Harold had had the same data, he probably would have chosen the same path. The lives of others were always worth more than his own comfort.

His shirt came open, and Harold closed his eyes, swallowing heavily. Sat there, quiet and unresisting, as John pushed the layers back across his shoulders, pulled them down his arms and away.

Next came the undershirt; Harold lifted his arms, but as the cool air struck his skin he flinched, acutely aware that his scarred body was on display. At least he didn’t have to watch John’s expression as he saw -- everything, every flaw, every mangled piece of flesh that would never be smooth or attractive or the right color ever again. Every grisly detail he hid daily under a consummately tailored suit.

Harold’s stomach felt tight; he wanted to hunch over, try to cover himself, to hide. By an act of sheer will he managed to keep sitting there, rigidly upright, chin trembling very little.

When John’s hands started to unfasten his belt, he opened his eyes again, kept them calm and steady on John’s face. Whatever this bizarre interaction was for, Harold knew that John was counting on him not to fall apart.

Would Elias be watching them? Harold wasn’t sure. He could picture Elias on the other side of the mirror, flanked by goons and bodyguards, but he couldn’t even make a guess as to his expression. Before tonight, Harold couldn’t have pictured a scenario that combined these elements, and now that he had, his mind wasn’t sure what to do with them.

As John slipped his belt free and got to work on the buttons of his fly, Harold recalled sliding photos across a diner’s table to Detective Simmons, proof of Elias’s goons shadowing the families of prominent members of HR. A single phone call could end lives. And if John didn’t play his part here… Harold’s imagination dutifully supplied him with images of Zoe Morgan, Dr. Tillman, his delightfully precocious ward Genrika (his lip twitched: _she’d_ probably spot the goons).

Or maybe it was something less personal, but no less pressing: a random family, a bus full of kids. Anyone John would be unwilling to sacrifice even if the alternative was hurting Harold. The Machine hadn’t given them the number in advance, but there were possible explanations for that. The capture could have been more opportunistic. Or perhaps the Machine, knowing that John would choose this path, had judged that the situation would resolve itself acceptably without interference.

If the algorithms predicted that the only significant threat was to Harold, then the Machine would stay silent. When Harold had created that order, told it not to consider his safety significant, he’d felt pretty good about the gesture: It proved he wasn’t building the Machine for his personal benefit. But the Machine would know whether tonight’s threat was lethal, and it couldn’t tell him, couldn’t intervene. Maybe he’d be dead before sunrise.

Maybe John would have to be the one who killed him.

The thought didn’t trigger a strong emotional reaction in him. The theatrical quality of this whole peculiar setup made death an unlikely outcome. John’s emotions didn’t mesh with the idea either -- although it was possible he just didn’t know yet. At any rate, Harold had long ago prepared himself for the likelihood of an early demise, and they faced deadly situations so often that he knew there was no point getting worked up if he couldn’t do anything about it. Not that his emotions were always that logical, but right here, right now, it helped.

At last his trousers came open, and then John, with more rough force than he had ever used on Harold before, shoved him back onto the bed, anger and disgust flaring across his face. Harold stiffened as he landed, feeling the springs, and blinked back tears -- a combination of pain and fear and empathy for John.

John, who hadn’t spoken since entering the room. No demands, no explanations. As Harold stared absently at the ceiling and felt his trousers get worked down his legs, he made the connection: John was likely under orders not to speak.

And he’d used that much force on Harold… enough to hurt him, slightly, but not enough to harm him. Enough to show that he wasn’t much concerned with Harold’s comfort. John knew the limitations of Harold’s body, and had breached them, deliberately.

As John pulled his boxers down to his ankles, divesting him of the last layer of fabric that left anything to the imagination, Harold suddenly understood the source of John’s complicated mix of emotions. It was damningly obvious, and, for a moment, he couldn’t even breathe.

This wasn’t just locking the two of them in a room and ordering them to have sex. That, in and of itself, was rape, but this? This was meant to _feel like_ rape… with John in the role of the rapist.

Compassion for John flooded through Harold, eclipsing every other concern. When John reached in and grabbed his sides, Harold murmured the only two words that could possibly make this situation more bearable: “I consent.”

With a startled breath, John hesitated, and Harold added in a rush, “Whatever you have to do, John. No boundaries; I consent to all of it.” He kept his voice low, hoping he hadn’t just broken whatever conditions John was operating under -- or at least that if he had, their captors hadn’t heard.

The limits of this encounter were an unknown variable, but at the moment he didn’t even care. Consenting to John’s part in this wasn’t consenting to whatever Elias had planned, and if he had to go through it anyway, he could at least take some of the burden off John’s shoulders. That much, he would _never_ regret.

John’s face had hardened again before Harold was even done speaking, but Harold understood: If he couldn’t keep his emotions tamped down, John wouldn’t be able to do this, regardless of the consent. Which meant... this was probably going to be worse than Harold expected. But just as John trusted him to understand the context, to read the negative space and see beyond the surface level of the situation -- no codes, no secret messages on John’s part, just trust in his partner’s exceptional mind -- Harold trusted John to choose the best available path and to walk it, even if he couldn’t explain the details.

As John’s hands tightened, Harold steeled himself for whatever was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Content Warnings:**  
>  My bread-and-butter: Getting kidnapped/captured, unable to escape.
> 
> Harold has to deal with a significant amount of pain both during and after the rape. He uses various mental tricks to try and deal with this, including distancing and distracting himself. I do focus on his disabilities (bad neck, bad hip/leg/back) a bit.
> 
> Due to his canon injuries and the surgeries to deal with them, Harold has significant scarring. In this fic, he feels ashamed of his scars and doesn't want others to see them (part of the reason he dresses so impeccably), but he's forced to be naked anyway.
> 
> For drama, I play up the anticipation of the rape. The rape itself is described in a way I consider non-graphic, focusing more on Harold's reactions and the discomfort, so while it's clear what is happening, the elements of the rape are largely out-of-focus. However, it may still be distressing to read about Harold being pressed down and trapped, finding it hard to breathe, the pain he goes through, and some incidental details. Also, he bleeds, and this trait continues to be touched upon until he can get medical aid.
> 
> Harold hates hospitals, but has to go to one to get the care he needs. I intend to spend a fair amount of description on the experience, and his reactions to it.
> 
> One character has a dissociative state (fugue?) for a while, like his mind took a vacation. Kinda freaks the other character out a bit.
> 
> One character imagines another character killing themselves (suicide).
> 
> The "dubious consent" here is not Harold accepting that the rape is going to happen and just going along with it (that's still rape); it's his line to John about how he accepts what John has to do. This doesn't make it suddenly _not_ rape, but then, John was never the rapist: The one orchestrating this event is the rapist, and John is just the weapon he uses (more notes on this in Chapter Two). But overall, it's a bit of an Iphigenia scene: Harold can't change what is going to happen (or at least, not without making worse things happen), but he can, to some extent, choose how he reacts to it.


	2. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He clutched at the blanket with one hand, just for something to hold onto.
> 
> This was really going to happen. He couldn’t even fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts **Rape by Proxy** : _One character having sex with another character against the will of both, because a third character has threatened to do something worse if they refuse._
> 
> It _should_ go without saying, but neither character depicted in this chapter is responsible (morally or, I assume, legally) for this action. They are both victims. I hope the text doesn't muddy this point, but sometimes an explicit disclaimer is useful.
> 
> I think I managed to be clear about the physical action without being explicit or gory. The focus is on one victim's internal thought process and some physical feelings (most notably: pain, and difficulty breathing). This is not a nice or pleasant event, for either character. It will have consequences for both.
> 
> One character also envisions a suicide scenario, which has a strong emotional effect on them.

In one quick movement, John flipped Harold onto his stomach; the sudden twist brought fresh tears to his eyes. Grimacing, Harold raised himself just enough to pull off his glasses and place them to the side, then sank down into the scratchy blanket, pillowing his head on folded arms as best he could. The strain on his lower back took up a good chunk of his awareness; his bad hip wasn’t very happy either.

Focused again on his breathing, he tried to keep his trembles to a minimum. Being tense was just going to make this worse, but it wasn’t like it was easy to relax in this position -- let alone these circumstances.

He heard John move to the nightstand, open a drawer. Felt him set something lightweight on the bed. The sound of something tearing, perhaps foil; then, for a long moment, nothing.

Harold breathed.

A slight noise he couldn’t identify, and then… fabric, rustling, just on the edge of hearing. His stomach clenched: John wasn’t going to bind him, was he? Was that the sound of silk -- his tie? He didn’t think he could take having his arms trapped behind him like that, not least because he couldn’t support his neck.

His breath came faster, and a little shaky. The anticipation of the unknown was threatening to choke him, but he had to -- he had to stay calm, to not panic. John was trapped too; John was counting on him.

Then he heard the slide of skin on skin, in quick, wet strokes. John’s measured breaths sped up... but so far nothing was touching Harold. _Of course_ , he thought. Of course John couldn’t do it right away. John was no stranger to homosexual relationships, but nothing in this situation was arousing, not enough to counter the inherent wrongness of the setup.

But it was hardly the first time John had been called upon to use sex as a weapon, and surely those encounters weren’t always sexy either. _That_ was one of the parts of John’s past that Harold had forced himself to come to grips with, and then -- much like the photos of corpses that had been living people before John got to them -- had sealed away as a footnote inside his mind and trained himself not to think about. But John would never have risen as high in the ranks as he had if he didn’t learn... _techniques_.

The stretch of rubber -- ah, a condom, that made sense of the tearing noise. Not having any experience with this kind of sexual contact, Harold wouldn’t have thought of it, but now that he had, it seemed obvious and important. For what came next.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Finally, almost welcome because it meant the situation was that much closer to its conclusion, he felt John step in between his thighs and lean forward. One hand pressed down on Harold’s back, right between the shoulder blades, and Harold drew in a sharp breath as a rush of fear overwhelmed him, stomach even tighter, heart racing. Chin trembling. He swallowed and clutched at the blanket with one hand, just for something to hold onto.

This was really going to happen. He couldn’t even fight it.

His lungs demanded more oxygen right as the weight made it harder to breathe; he was starting to feel lightheaded. Some part of him wondered if John was trying to make things easier on him, maybe get him to pass out halfway. Harold knew enough of the human body to make basic repairs when necessary; John knew how to kill, cause pain, or render the subject unconscious in seconds. Another thing Harold tried not to think about -- how John had acquired these skills. How often he’d put them to use.

He thought about it now, for as long as he could stand the imagery. Because fixating on half-random details was a familiar mental state, one of the many tools he used to get through bouts of pain. And right now he was using every technique he could think of to make it through this ordeal without panicking. Consent given in advance wouldn’t mean much to John if he started struggling to get free.

There was no attempt to get him ready for the intrusion -- just John’s hand spreading his cheeks and a sudden warm, slick hardness slipping between, pressing in against him. Harold squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep from whimpering. The tightness of his shoulders would be obvious to John, but he couldn’t-- couldn’t--

And then there was pressure, and greater pressure, and a sudden sharp burning, so unexpected that a sob escaped him before he could help it, and he had to fight to stop the shaking. John’s weight pressed down on him, that hard heat opening him up, sliding inside, a sensation he didn’t know what to do with. And then it receded, briefly and not all the way, and came again, a little deeper this time. Harold forced himself to breathe, _just breathe_ , as the rhythm picked up, each rocking movement of the bed a quiet agony to his hip and spine.

What little he could feel of John’s body was tense: He was probably fighting as hard to keep going as Harold was fighting to let him. Harder, no doubt, because it was more difficult to hurt someone you cared about than to let yourself be hurt by them.

Harold wondered, distantly, if John understood that it wasn’t John who was hurting Harold; that John was only the tool, and their captors were the ones who bore the blame for this. _Rape by proxy_ , a concept he’d never been this close to before. Assuming he was right about the one orchestrating this event, it was Elias who was raping him, not John. It was Elias raping _both_ of them.

Obvious as it was, that line of reasoning wouldn’t be enough for John -- Harold knew that without question. The two of them were far too primed for guilt; it was easy to take on burdens they didn’t deserve, just add them to the pile. An _actual_ flaw, because they had enough of their own to deal with.

When this was over (assuming it ended with the two of them back home and mostly in one piece, and he didn’t care to contemplate the alternatives), he’d need to prepare an extensive debriefing. Probably one that included some dictionary definitions and maybe a short delve into criminal law.

John’s thrust hit him hard, and he stiffened, biting back a wave of nausea. Trying to focus on anything other than the sensations of his own body, he pictured things to look forward to. Getting back to the library. Being greeted by Bear. Even submitting himself to a hospital trip. He was certainly bleeding, and the continued burning sensation probably meant something worse; anal wounds could lead to serious problems without proper care. So there was no question now: He needed a doctor. Even if it meant hacking the records later to get rid of the evidence. With any luck he wouldn’t have to stay there overnight.

Would John need any medical attention for this? He didn’t really have any experience by which to guess, but it seemed unlikely. So maybe while he was stuck in the hospital John could--

All of a sudden, vivid and bright, he saw it: John stalking up to Elias, taking him by the throat, strangling him to death with his bare hands. And then putting a few bullets in his head and… other places, for good measure.

_And then turning the gun on himself._

It was that last image, as undeniable as a vision of the future, that made Harold shudder and start sobbing, miserably, unable to rein it in, the thought now entrenched in his mind. John’s rhythm stuttered and then picked up again, thrusts hard and angry; Harold was glad he couldn’t see John’s face.

This event would break John -- had _already_ broken John -- and unless Harold could find some way to stitch the pieces back together, John was going to run off at the first opportunity and do something drastic, something unrecoverable.

Between sobs, he managed to blurt out, “Keep going.” Then: “It’s-- it’s okay. I’m--” but then he couldn’t continue, and just buried his face in his arms and abandoned himself to the erratic spasms of his lungs, shoulders shaking. The weight of John’s hand, still pressing him firmly to the mattress, was almost a comfort.

A couple minutes passed before he could quiet down. John was still pumping, rapidly; his breaths were harsh in Harold’s ears, strained, choking. How long since they’d started? How long would it take?

Would he -- did he have to -- _contribute_ , for this to end? Surely John wasn’t… waiting for him. Was the humiliation supposed to go that far, to force him to -- to _get off_ on this, somehow? Harold recoiled at the idea, for so many reasons.

He’d never been interested in men; hell, when it came to thoughts of sex, he was barely even interested in women. And while he hadn’t been able to determine if John’s homosexual encounters were entirely for missions or whether they said something about his preferences, Harold recalled being on his knees before John, running a tape measure around his lower body for a good five minutes. If John had been attracted to him, Harold probably would have noticed at the time.

Abruptly, in the clarity of thought after tears, Harold realized that it didn’t even matter: John was never going to come this way. The physical stimulation and all his determination couldn’t overcome the self-loathing, the horror at having to hurt his partner -- his friend. It would never trigger an orgasm, it _couldn’t_.

The gas pedal was useless when the brakes were pressed down through the floor.

And the fact that John was still trying, after this long, meant Elias wasn’t letting him off the hook until he was… finished. (What the hell was Elias going to do, check the condom?) But the variables were stacked against him.

Harold had to change the variables.

He knew he could get past the pain; it would take effort, but it was a familiar task, one he managed multiple times a day, a lot of it worse than what was happening right now. Not that he could push himself to enjoy it -- that wasn’t necessary in any case, might even defeat Elias’s purpose -- but he could ease those brakes up a little.

As carefully as he could, Harold lifted his head and turned it a little to the side, supporting it with both hands and trying to ignore the tight aura of impending migraine. His voice had to be clear and unmuffled; he needed John to hear him, to _understand_ him.

Willing the right words to come and bridge the unreasonable gulf between them, he spoke in the gaps between breaths, each syllable a struggle:

“John -- we’ll get -- through this. I trust you. I can handle -- the pain. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

With no change in the rhythm, he had no indication that he was even getting through. But he had to keep going, keep _trying_.

“I don’t -- blame you -- for this. Not your fault. You do what you have to. You do what I _can’t_ do. I’m proud to be your friend, John. Tonight doesn’t change that.”

It was getting harder to think; he was dizzy, low on oxygen. Sick to his stomach and awash with pain. For a long moment he focused on taking breaths, as deep as he could manage, until the dizziness subsided a bit and he felt like he could go on.

“I’m so very proud of you, John. You’re a good man. A brave one.” He was gasping now, close to his limit, colored lights dancing on the inside of his eyelids. “Please -- stay with me. Get through this. Please, John. We can get through this. It’ll -- it’ll be -- okay.”

He heard John’s breath catch, felt the last convulsive thrusts lose rhythm completely. And then, under John’s heavy groan, felt the shudder of John’s loins against him, and a sudden gush of warmth within.

For a few agonizing seconds, John’s full weight was on him, the ragged breath hot on his neck -- and then, with a strangled cry, John wrenched himself backwards and away. Harold heard him hit the floor hard and scrabble across the bare concrete; he made out a few gasping sobs that died away beneath the sound of Harold’s own breaths, loud enough to drown out other noises, full and desperate now that John’s weight no longer compressed his lungs.

The liquid trickled down from his ass, hot and sticky, getting everywhere, but the disgust barely registered; he couldn’t concentrate on anything but getting _air_. But as that need was met and the dizziness turned to the onset of a headache, he realized -- belatedly -- that the condom must have broken.

As soon as he had that image in his head, he felt his lips turn up, and then, in what had to be the least appropriate reaction possible, he began to laugh, the convulsions almost _violent_. A fresh source of pain to aggravate neck and back and everything else, and again he couldn’t catch his breath; somehow his brain had decided that a malfunctioning condom was the perfect capper to the night, and he _just_ \-- _couldn’t_ \-- _stop_.

The laughter turned abruptly to sobs, and he curled up a little, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he shook, unable to move from where he lay.

Somehow he managed to choke out words: “John -- John -- _John_ \--”

It was over. There might be more, and for what they’d already gone through there would certainly be consequences, but it was over -- finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Preview of Chapter Three:**  
>  He wondered if it was even worth trying to save the suit at this point. Would it bother him, to wear it again? Bring up... memories?
> 
> Then he thought about what John might associate with the sight of this suit, and resolved to burn it until the ashes didn’t look like ashes anymore. If it would make John feel better, he’d get rid of all his suits and switch to… hoodies, or something. Sweater vests.


	3. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s face, though, was slack and expressionless.
> 
> It was, perhaps, the most terrifying sight Harold had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of the previous chapter have left Harold bleeding and in pain, which gets mentioned throughout this chapter.
> 
> John, meanwhile, is suffering a "Heroic B.S.O.D." due to the trauma: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HeroicBSOD
> 
> I don't know if anyone has a trigger over people being traumatized into emotionless disconnect, but just in case, there's your warning.

As the sobs slowly subsided, Harold’s awareness got pulled back to the hot waves of pain radiating from the back of his neck and… other places, places he was trying not to think about right now. _An hour_ , he guessed, _maybe two at the most_ , before his body decided to shut down and the pain reached the level of incapacitation. Right now, he didn’t really _want_ to move, but he could push through it; that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. And who knew what else they’d have to endure before the night was over?

Besides, it was becoming increasingly clear that he’d have to go to John; John certainly wasn’t coming back to him.

Gingerly, Harold rolled onto his back, lay still for a moment, and then fumbled around until he found his glasses. That done, he pushed himself up -- more wetness gushing out at the movement (he shuddered, and tried not to guess at how much of it might be blood) -- and sat there on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, trembling, face screwed up in a grimace and both arms braced behind him. The half-reclined position was a new agony to his neck and lower back, but trying to sit straighter put pressure on his wounds, which was a sharper pain, so he leaned back again, trying for a balance between the two.

Tilting his head forward as far as he was able, he took in the sight of John lying crumpled on the concrete floor: fetal position, face buried in his arms. He’d scooted away from the bed, but otherwise didn’t seem to have moved. He was still hanging out of his trousers; the burst condom, as well as John’s own skin, was streaked with blood.

 _Well_ , Harold thought wryly, _it’s not like I’m a stranger to_ his _blood_.

“John?” he said, all too aware of the danger signals: breaths coming slow and regular like sleep, but muscle tension eliminating the hypothesis of sleep. Unnatural contrast, made worse when John didn’t answer. “Mr. Reese?” he tried, a bit louder -- nothing.

 _Check his vitals_ , he thought. If he could manage to get over there.

His trousers were still around his ankles. Without thinking, he bent to reach for them, but a sudden savage twinge in his back aborted that maneuver. He blinked back tears, gasping through the pain and trying to work out a strategy.

If he couldn’t pull his own trousers up, he certainly didn’t have it in him to kneel by John, let alone try to help him to his feet. Assuming their captors had taken John’s cell phone, they couldn’t call for help. And even if Harold was right about Elias arranging this event, they couldn’t expect him to help get them home; plus, the thought of getting in the car with Elias or one of his henchmen -- even Marconi, who seemed a cut above the rest -- made Harold’s stomach twist.

That left only one possibility: John getting to his feet under his own power. Which meant Harold somehow had to bring him to his senses.

Coaxing him would take too long. They had to get moving; Harold needed medical care, John needed… he couldn’t even guess. If they were going to get out of here, get moving while Harold was still able to move, then Harold couldn’t afford to be gentle. Whatever was going on in John’s brain, they would deal with it when they were safe; right now, he had to get John’s attention, and fast. And there was one thing that caught John’s attention like nothing else.

“Mr. Reese,” he said firmly, “I need your help.”

John’s slow, steady breathing didn’t change; there was no sign the words had even registered.

Harold didn’t like to leverage his own pain. Usually, he concealed it as best as he could; just because _he_ had to deal with it didn’t mean his friends had to remain aware of it too. But right now, he needed to get through to John -- if that was even possible -- and John would never leave him hurting.

Wincing a little at the manipulation, he let pain seep through into his voice and shaky breaths: “I can’t do this alone, Mr. Reese. I need you to get up here and _help me_.”

It made him feel dirty, but if this didn’t work… Harold swallowed, wondering what his next move would be.

But then John was pushing himself off the floor… wearily, mechanically. Arms limp at his sides, he turned toward Harold and closed in; Harold noted the horizontal streaks of drying tears across his cheek. John’s face, though, was slack and expressionless.

It was, perhaps, the most terrifying sight Harold had ever seen.

Just out of arm’s reach, John stopped short, swaying. Dull, half-lidded eyes focused on Harold, but avoided his face.

Harold licked his lips and changed the order of operations on his mental list of who was getting help first. Then, reluctantly, he changed it back, because while John clearly needed it more, he wasn’t actively _bleeding_.

“I can’t bend over,” Harold said, trying to keep his voice firm -- in command mode. Because when things got down to the wire, the instinctive parts of the brain kicked in, and John’s training had left his brain coded with an instinctive response to authority: to commands, not requests. “I don’t intend to leave this room without my clothes, but I-- I need your help to get dressed.” Despite his best efforts, his voice dropped a bit near the end.

But John started to kneel, reaching for Harold’s pants. Harold quickly put a hand on his forearm. “Wait,” he said, and thought to add, “Don’t move.”

Keeping himself distant from the reality of the act, he reached out and pulled off the messy condom, placed it beside him on the bed -- because if he jerked his arm fast enough to fling it away, he was sure he’d pay for it -- and wiped his hand ineffectually on the blanket. Then he tucked John away, clinically, buttoning him up with practiced ease and trying to ignore the bloodstains he was adding to as he did so.

John didn’t react to any of it. Harold wasn’t sure if that was bad or good.

“Now, Mr. Reese, my trousers,” he said, and John knelt and pulled them up, boxers and trousers together, until Harold took hold of them. “Thank you,” he said, keeping the tone formal. Then, considering, “I… might need some help standing up, here.”

Stepping back a little, John put his hand under Harold’s elbow, not touching him; Harold took a deep breath and pulled himself up, gripping John’s forearm harder than he’d meant to. The agony was nauseating, unrelenting for a long moment, and he swayed there, clutching John, clenching his teeth and hoping he wasn’t about to add to all the other unsavory liquids this room had seen in the past half-hour.

Eventually, he was able to fight it back, until the feelings subsided into the overall discomfort and no longer commanded so much of his attention. Once he felt ready to move, and reasonably steady on his feet, he let go of John’s arm.

“Could you find my shirt?” he asked, and, as John moved away, he busied himself with his trousers, trying to hurry despite the pain and stiffness slowing him down. Whatever was still seeping out of him was going to go straight through the boxers; he wondered if it was even worth trying to save the suit at this point. He hated to waste a nice suit. Would it bother him, to wear it again? Bring up… memories?

Then he thought about what _John_ might associate with the sight of this suit, and resolved to burn it until the ashes didn’t look like ashes anymore. For John’s peace of mind he could get rid of _all_ his suits and switch to… hoodies, or something. Sweater vests.

The mental image -- so unlike him at this point in life -- made his lips twitch, but then it struck him that changing his wardrobe that drastically might be a poor way to help them both recover. They had to _deal with_ this, not run from it. So once they’d gotten through the situation, once they were safe and had time to think, Harold would take his particular skill with research and turn it from learning about Numbers to learning about effective ways to recover from trauma.

Before that point, he just hoped that he wouldn’t screw things up worse out of ignorance.

John brought back his shirt and vest, and held them out to him. Frowning, Harold turned a little to look for his undershirt, then thought better of the motion and, eyes squeezed shut, took the garments from John’s hands. His legs pressed against the bed frame, giving a clear reference point so he didn’t fall over, but it took a moment before he mastered himself enough to carefully start putting the shirt on.

Sliding his hands down to the tails, he sought the lowest button. He lined it up and buttoned from the bottom, a technique for dressing in the dark, one he’d learned back when he’d already started dressing nicely but hadn’t quite shaken the need for occasional hangovers. It felt odd to have the vest on already; usually, he ensured that one piece of his outfit was properly accounted for before adding the next. But at least the vest didn’t get in the way. He undid his pants long enough to tuck his shirt into place, then finished buttoning up, and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes, John was still standing there, swaying vacantly, like his brain had run out of orders and he didn’t have enough cognition left to come up with any of his own. Harold couldn’t recall ever seeing John with this little life in his eyes.

“Jacket and tie, Mr. Reese,” he said, swallowing the fear that threatened to choke him. Strange, somehow... out of all the emotions that kept trying to grab hold of him, it was fear for John that managed to cling the tightest. All the rest he was letting slide right off, and it didn’t take much effort -- so far. A temporary reprieve, to be sure, but a necessary one: He needed a clear head.

As Harold took his jacket from John, his frown was of the analytical sort, trying to work out a puzzle. The data was all there, he felt sure of that; it was just waiting for him to put it into the right configuration so he could understand what had happened to John.

Up to a certain point, John had been -- well, not fine, but better than might be expected, given the distasteful task and expected fallout. He’d come into the room with his mask firmly in place; he’d done what he had to do to get both of them through the event. And, barring a few breaks, a few flashes of emotion that made it through the cracks, John’s mask had stayed intact, right up until…

…until Harold had coaxed him through to orgasm. The way he’d pulled out -- Harold could still hear that anguished cry -- _that_ was clearly the point at which John had lost that control.

Harold had thought he was helping. No, he _had_ been helping; there was nothing else he could have done. But, at the same time, he had maneuvered John into an impossible position. All the time that Harold had been keeping his own emotions at bay -- not letting them get purchase on his mind, for however long he could manage it -- John had been keeping _his_ emotions closed down, bottled up. And Harold had pulled the lid right off.

However well-intended, however necessary at the time, Harold’s words had unleashed everything John had been holding back, thrown him deep into the emotional reality of what they were doing -- a reality he couldn’t deal with. Opening up enough to climax meant losing the control he needed just to stay operational. And if Harold had to guess, John had refused to lose himself to the chaos of his emotions, and taken the only other route he could manage: a full divorce.

Cut off from his emotions that way… what other systems were affected? John was responsive enough to follow Harold’s lead -- barely -- but seemed disconnected from… well, everything else. Right now, he was active only because of Harold’s specific orders: Harold in the driver’s seat of John’s brain.

As Harold accepted his tie from John, he wrestled with that uncomfortable thought.

Constructing his usual perfect Windsor -- glad he didn't need a mirror for _that_ \-- Harold tried to calm his thoughts. He knew he'd gotten soft. He was so used to John taking charge of these encounters that part of him still expected John to just snap out of it, take point, and lift the burden from Harold's shoulders. In his element, Harold sifted data and planned ahead, plotted a safe course between threats; John was the one with the experience and instincts to improvise when the plan fell apart and they had to go in blind.

Here, with John's safety and sanity in his already shaking hands, Harold was about to face the unknown with no weapons, no backup, no plan. If they faced violence, they were probably doomed anyway. Negotiations he could usually handle, but it depended on who they were dealing with. Was it really Elias out there? Harold didn't have it in him to predict his chess partner's next move. If it was anyone else... well, perhaps he could clothe himself in the Mr. Egret persona long enough to bluff his way through.

No. That was pointless. Whoever was on the other side of the glass had seen Harold at his most vulnerable, both physically and emotionally. Egret was cold, pitiless: a deliberate contrast to Harold's norm, a contingency he'd hoped never to use. No one who had seen Harold in that room could possibly buy him as that type of person.

So he was just Harold, minus his tech; Harold, picking up John's backpack and soldiering on. Same goal as ever: See to it that John got safely home. That, at least, was a task he was well versed in, and he had always -- somehow, no matter how much he wanted to panic at the time -- risen to the occasion.

The near silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking open.

"I guess that's our cue," Harold said dryly. "Stay with me, John."

He walked toward the door, back straight, taking shelter -- for the moment -- in a quiet dignity. Which was good, because he was uncomfortably aware of the mess in his trousers, and his inability to do anything about it right now. _Stay on task_ , he told himself sternly, trying not to flash back to the many times John had finished up missions while bleeding out.

Hand on the doorknob, he turned back to look at his partner. John was casting about, looking lost, not following. "John," he said firmly, with a tone of disappointment, "come _here_."

John's head came up, still not meeting his eyes -- but he came closer, again stopping just out of reach, as though there were a barrier he wasn't allowed to cross.

Taking a step, Harold reached out toward John, hoping to reassure him with touch, even if his words couldn't help him right now. But he stopped short and pulled his hand back, remembering the blood (and not just blood, either). That pause made him reconsider the impulse to comfort: John was up, he was walking, he was capable of following Harold, which might be all they needed to get out of here. If he pushed John back into his emotions, they might lose even that much. Comfort would have to come later.

" _Follow me_ ," he stressed, and turned back to the door. He pushed it open and limped out into a dark hallway.

Before he had time to wonder which way to go, the room to the left lit up. Harold's lips quirked as he headed in that direction, his mind focused behind him on the unsteady footsteps as John followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Preview of Chapter Four:**  
>  “You know, part of me doesn’t want to forgive you for hurting John like this.” He paused for a breath, and shook his head. “I can’t be like that. I bear far too much guilt to draw a line in the sand for anyone else right now. But you’re walking a dark path, Elias. I’m not convinced you could leave it even if you tried. I wish you would."


	4. Observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turning away from the glass, Harold met Elias’s gaze coolly, and studied the face of this inscrutable man who could press people into situations this extreme and not even feel ashamed about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A rape victim is not obligated to help the one who raped them. **Full stop.** Nor are they required to find some meaning or purpose in what happened to them; some may, others may not. (“Everything happens for a reason” can feel like a slap in the face if you’ve gone through serious trauma.)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Harold, however, has a particular mindset toward what happened to him, and toward Elias. In this chapter, his mindset is also affected by his low-emotion state, which is helping him get through the situation. Later chapters explore more of his internal reasoning._

At the end of the hallway was an open door. It took deliberate will not to hesitate before stepping through. Grave questions were about to be answered, and delaying the revelations wouldn’t make them any easier to bear.

The observation room was fairly small, a little crowded even with only five people. Marconi, of course, which settled one question even before Harold spotted Elias, and three nearly interchangeable goons. Marconi’s expression was unreadable; he would carry out his boss’s wishes to the letter, yet Harold had to wonder if he agreed with the method this time. Then again, how many qualms could the murderer have?

One of the goons hardly looked their way, but the other two leered at Harold, their expressions darkly gloating. Actually, now that he was closer, Harold found that he recognized one of them. Some months back, a minor gang war, a couple dozen men kneecapped and left for Fusco to collar… one of them the younger brother of this man, whom Harold had investigated briefly before concluding that he wasn’t involved in the case. The hate in the man's eyes now made perfect sense, given that Harold was the reason his brother was in Rikers. Of course he’d be glad to see Harold suffer.

Still, no reason to pay much attention to any of the goons. Elias held the leash -- without his express orders, they wouldn’t act. And if one of them jumped the leash, well, that was Marconi’s lookout; he’d put them down _fast_. There was something to be said for that level of control.

To Harold’s left was the glass, a window into the room he’d just spent hours in. He glanced dispassionately at the bed -- and the condom wrapper, and his undershirt on the floor, and, oh yes, the giant bloody stain on the off-white blanket. It should have felt like seeing a memory from a different viewpoint, from the outside, but it just felt unreal, as if a room that small couldn’t possibly contain an event as momentous as what they’d just gone through.

Positioned directly in front of the glass was a chair, with thick ropes still hanging off it. It didn’t take much imagination to see John tied there -- tense, but motionless, his gaze fixed firmly on Harold. If Harold had known that John was on the other side of the glass, sitting alongside their captors, would he have looked that way? Would that have made things any easier, on either of them? But he’d been unaware of the negotiations taking place just one room away.

Harold could see Elias leaning in just behind John’s ear, explaining what was about to happen, what John would do. Explaining what the consequences would be if he failed in any particular. Driving home the helplessness of the situation and forcing John into that mental state of “just get it done.”

There was one other chair in the observation room. Elias stood behind it, but Harold guessed it had been his seat when the room was dark. Had he been watching? Maybe he’d averted his eyes the whole time, busied himself with a smart phone and had Marconi be the one to confirm that John was following orders. Maybe he’d closely observed them from start to finish, trying to pick up on something new about their mindsets from the way they’d dealt with the ordeal. Maybe he’d regretted his choices, but felt it was too late to rescind them, or maybe he’d been feeding some sadistic corner of himself that Harold had been too blind to pick up on before today.

In the next few minutes, Harold knew he’d be learning something new about Elias. Right now he had hypotheses, but one of them was about to settle down into cold reality… or maybe they’d all go up in smoke when Elias proposed a counter-interpretation that Harold hadn’t thought of yet. The uncertainty scared him, in a way Elias had never scared him before; he didn’t let that show.

Turning away from the glass, Harold met Elias’s gaze coolly, a slight, curious tilt to his head. Not speaking, or even trying to convey a message without words -- just observing, for now. Elias’s chin came up, but he didn’t offer back anything more than what Harold was offering, and Harold just studied the face of this inscrutable man who could press people into situations this extreme and not even feel ashamed about it.

 

“ _Bad code_ ,” Root had said, trying to convince Harold that some people -- _all_ people, in fact -- were just accidents who couldn’t help doing bad things. Victims of their programming, incapable of meaningful change, predictable and -- in all but the best cases -- disposable.

Before that terrifying captivity, Harold had thought himself to be above that kind of thinking. Mere days after getting free, he’d voiced the concept aloud, using _her_ term, trying to justify letting someone die -- then, stricken, come face to face with the reality that he’d never gotten free at all.

That night had been the first of many he’d spent wrestling with memories he hadn’t wanted to deal with, trying to grasp the full extent of Root’s continued influence over his mind. Somehow he had internalized her ideology; it was embedded deep, like a splinter, masquerading as a truth he’d just been afraid to admit to himself. Deprogramming himself hadn’t been easy, but he’d finally been cleansed of that toxic mindset: Harold didn’t believe in bad code.

Being human meant the freedom to _make better choices_. Not to undo the choices you’d already made -- no u-turns, just detours. Harold had approached John expecting -- hoping -- that he could persuade him to put away the dutiful killer and take up a new purpose. After Dillinger, he’d been hesitant to get his hopes up, but John had astonished him by proving, time and again, to be worthy of the highest regard. When John had picked up Fusco as an asset, Harold had seen nothing but a man who covered up for corruption and murder; by now, the detective regularly risked his career, and even his life, in service to a mission whose details he could never be allowed to know.

And Harold? To his everlasting shame, he’d pushed aside the plight of the irrelevants repeatedly, until Nathan had forced his hand. His change was not, perhaps, as profound as that of his friends, and he could wish it hadn’t taken a tragedy to wake him up, but, now and then, he let himself wonder if Nathan would be proud of what he’d become.

So Harold knew firsthand: No one’s future was inevitable. Standing here, face to face with Elias, Harold couldn’t help but compare him to Root. A murderer and worse, but Harold had found reason to protect her, try to get her help; being near her still made his skin crawl, but the small improvements he’d noticed over time had convinced him that she could become a good person -- if she found reason to try. And she seemed to have found that reason in her relationship with the Machine… as counter-intuitive (and nightmare-inducing) as that idea might seem.

Would Elias ever see the need for change? The man had been justifying his decisions to himself for so long that he hardly seemed to understand why others might disagree with his methods. And yet, he always did things for a purpose -- he was calculating, not petty. Orchestrating an event like this… clearly he thought that the benefit outweighed the atrocity. Harold couldn’t even begin to guess at his reasoning, and nothing in Elias’s expression gave him any clue.

But if there was a chance, here, to get through to him… somehow… if what Harold had gone through could mean something more than a night’s pain and humiliation… he wanted to seize that chance, if it existed. For Elias, having gone to this extreme, there couldn’t be many chances _left_.

 

When the moment had stretched too long and Elias finally dropped his eyes, just briefly, Harold found his voice again. “Are they safe, then?” he asked, levelly.

A startled look crossed Elias’s face, and he seemed to hold himself back from saying something.

“The person you were threatening,” Harold clarified, no less calm. “Are they safe? Was this enough payback for you?”

Harold would spend hours playing this moment through his mind, wondering how his words had changed anything about the situation. Because it was at that point that Elias looked suddenly, utterly, bafflingly ashamed. Stricken. Had he expected that Harold wouldn’t work out the hold he had over John? Feeling a little insulted, Harold thought back on all the times they’d played each other, both on the chessboard and through their various capers; surely Elias credited him with more imagination than that.

Finally, Elias nodded. “Yeah. They’re safe. I won’t threaten them again.”

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Harold held Elias’s gaze a moment longer, then twisted his body to look at John. The motion pulled a gasp from him as a vicious twinge ran up his back; he stiffened up and breathed through the pain. John was blank -- still -- but Harold would have to worry about that later. Marconi looked thoughtful, and maybe a touch… proud? The emotion felt incongruous, not just on the mobster’s face (it decidedly wasn’t his customary smugness), but just being part of this situation at all.

Turning back to Elias, the only person he felt the least up to dealing with right now, Harold said softly, “You know, part of me doesn’t want to forgive you for hurting John like this.” He paused, emotions still distant, and shook his head. “I can’t be like that. I bear far too much guilt to draw a line in the sand for anyone else right now -- even for this.”

Elias had schooled his expression and now looked merely grave; if that meant he’d pay closer attention to Harold’s words, Harold was glad for the change.

“You’re walking a dark path, Elias,” he said, even more quietly. “I’m not convinced that you could leave it even if you tried, although I wish you would. But I can’t help but think... and please don’t see this as a threat, because I don’t mean it that way, but… I can’t help but think that this time, next year, you’re going to be in the ground. And I wonder who’s going to be bringing flowers to that grave... I wonder if you’ll even _have_ a grave.”

Holding Elias’s gaze, he took in the emotions playing across those inscrutable eyes. With the barest of nods, Elias acknowledged his words.

When they’d entered the room, Harold had been thinking about getting answers. Why had Elias done this? What purpose had it served? But he’d already had the most pressing questions answered: Whether this was over, and whether Elias could, indeed, feel shame anymore.

The blood was still oozing down his thighs, and he didn’t know where they were exactly, or how far they might have to walk; it could be a while before they got help. Sticking around to interrogate Elias wasn’t a good move right now. Besides, John probably had those answers already -- if they could get him back to normal, he could tell them everything, and if not… well. Another branching path that Harold refused to consider before it happened.

“Come, John,” said Harold. “We’re going home.”

Marconi held the door for them as Harold limped stiffly through it, John trailing him. The door behind them closed, and then they stood in darkness… another hallway, it seemed, but no lights or windows.

“Hey,” came Marconi’s voice behind them. Startled, Harold turned too quickly once again and had to clench his teeth against both pain and nausea. Night-blind, he couldn’t make out any detail, and he was too weary to muster anything like a useful reaction, so he just stood there, waiting.

When cool metal touched his hand, he flinched, but it turned out to be a small cell phone. “Boss said you could have this,” Marconi said.

“Is it going to explode?” Harold mused idly, and was almost gratified to hear Marconi’s stifled snort of laughter. He flipped it open, the light a sudden glare in his eyes. After a few blinks, he could make out the basics, and it really was a basic phone -- not even GPS. But enough to let him place a call, that’s what mattered right now.

“Thank you,” Harold said automatically, before he thought to reason out whether it was appropriate to thank your ex-captor for being not as much of a monster as he might have been.

“One other thing… if you want it. I can drive you both to a good landmark. Otherwise, out here, you’re gonna be walking a while.”

Were they that far from the rest of the city? Harold tried to recall how long the ride had been. Surely less than an hour? Still, that left a lot of possibilities, and without GPS, the delay… Shaw could still track them by the phone signal, but she might be harder to reach than Fusco, and Fusco needed an actual address to aim for.

“All right,” Harold said, barely hesitating. He couldn’t let this night go on any longer out of pride or fear.

Marconi pressed past them; Harold followed, the light of the phone a small comfort as they threaded their way out of the dark building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I’ve never been in a situation this extreme, I am drawing from personal experience. In the first event, I got attacked by a dog, and was furious all the way home (with my leg bleeding like crazy), until I walked in the front door and the anger drained away and I started sobbing -- so I know that sometimes your brain just commandeers your emotions to get you through an event safely, to keep you operational.
> 
> The other event was a man jacking off while watching me (maybe age 11), which I found odd but not the least bit traumatizing*. It left me with this analytical mindset of “What good can I make happen because of this weird event?” (I also went home and immediately told my dad, who walked me through the options.) It’s a bit of a stretch to apply this to something that actively harms the victim, but I could see Harold thinking that way -- especially as the specific reason for my analytical mindset actually overlaps his _general_ mindset to a reasonable degree.
> 
> _*I would post some of the reasons that I didn't find it traumatizing, but they’re a private matter. If this site had PM’s, I’d offer to discuss it that way for those who’d like to know, but alas._
> 
> **Preview of Chapter Five:**   
>  _He was beginning to wonder if Elias had given him a phone just to drive home Harold’s helplessness in the absence of his normal resources. There were so many things he could have done with a smartphone that were frustratingly out of reach right now. He’d even had to phone directory assistance to get the number for the hospital, and that chafed, using up a person’s time for something he could have done in seconds with internet access._
> 
> _When he managed to reach the hospital’s front desk, they said Dr. Tillman was busy, but they could take a message. Harold blanked, and stayed silent for a good half a minute before simply hanging up, angry at himself for being that rude._


	5. Drifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was little else to focus on in the here and now, and so he gave in and let himself drift, accepting the flashbacks as they came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Depiction of a panic attack. Also, John's still mentally MIA._
> 
> _Lots of flashbacks. Helplessness. Thoughts about prescription drug use; about hospitals. Mention of blood and bloodstains._

The potholes that had hurt him on the way in were still jarring, but Marconi drove with surprising care. They didn’t talk -- hadn’t exchanged a single word, in fact, since Marconi had told them to wait (in front of the building that Harold had _pointedly_ refused to look back at) and strode off to pull the car around.

At first, Harold had been grateful for the silence: He didn’t have to come up with safe topics for conversation, or deal with Marconi’s observations (cruel _or_ kind) on the night’s events. And it gave him a chance to gather his thoughts, without interruption.

But as the darkness closed in around them, his awareness of the world narrowed down: to the car’s patchy interior; John’s quiet, too-steady breathing; the small changes of momentum that rocked his aching body; Marconi’s eyes in the mirror, occasionally glancing back at them.

Outside the car, there was only the patch of headlights illuminating the mostly featureless road that stretched out in front of them. No street lamps, no side streets -- just a road that seemed too long, too rural, to exist anywhere close to New York City.

As the minutes passed -- far too slowly -- Harold found little to calm his restless thoughts. His brain was running in stuttering circles again; memories felt disjointed, cut apart and stitched together all wrong. Trying to put them back in order was strenuous, and he was already exhausted; what strength of will he had left was needed to keep back the panic that kept nudging at the edges of his awareness.

He was, after all, once more in a small room, nearly featureless; in pain, at the mercy of those not known to be merciful; with enough data to prompt speculation, but not enough to draw conclusions -- either of what would happen next, or how much danger they were truly in. Before the rape, he’d been able to ground himself and stave off fear by focusing on his breathing and his own pain; by now, things had progressed to the point where he needed to distract himself _from_ the pain.

But there was little else to focus on in the here and now, and so he gave in and let himself drift, accepting the flashbacks as they came.

 

_Stay with me, John._

Beside him, John was there -- yet not there: physically present, mentally… absent. It had been easy to coax him into the car, but when Harold tried to hand him the seat belt, he simply stared at it with a look of blank incomprehension.

That eerie moment had prompted a different caliber of flashback: Harold’s father, drifting off into the grey dependence of Alzheimer’s, as it stripped away not only memories but the ability to follow complex thoughts. By the time Harold had been forced into hiding, the father he’d left behind had been incapable of all but the most basic of tasks. Barely even a person anymore, just a collection of old and incomplete memories that he couldn’t tie back to reality, and the occasional awareness that something was seriously wrong.

Of the many nightmare scenarios Harold had to contend with, that one outranked all of them: the fear of losing his mind. Seeing John like that -- unable to buckle a _seat belt_ , of all things -- had hit him like a blow to the gut, driving all the air out of him.

He’d had to turn his back on John, work through the pain again and gather himself, remind himself that trying to bring John back right now could be disastrous. They had to get to the city, had to connect with Shaw or Fusco and make it to the hospital. And if John went into hysterics or some sort of PTSD panic state -- if he attacked Marconi or tried to protect Harold from invisible enemies -- there was no telling how much worse this could get.

Harold didn’t even dare to touch his hand.

 

Shaw wasn’t answering. That wasn’t unusual, not this early in the morning and from an unknown number, but it would have been nice to get her assistance instead of having to rely on Fusco. Trusting Shaw with John’s safety would have been easy, but Fusco, for all his courage and skill, was hardly on par with a covert-ops specialist. John would find it much harder to give Shaw the slip.

The library cage was looking far too appealing. At least that way John would definitely still be there once Harold got out of the hospital.

 

As Harold had been staring down at the back seat, steeling himself for the necessity of sitting down, Marconi had twisted in the driver’s seat and tossed him a cushion. Never in his life had Harold been more relieved to see a foam ring. While it couldn’t eliminate the pain, it would distribute the pressure away from the more sensitive areas of his anatomy.

He spent a couple miles dealing with the paranoia aroused by a considerate captor. Was Marconi’s compassion some kind of psychological trick? It seemed like a form of good cop, bad cop: Elias doing harm, Marconi showing kindness. Maybe setting them up for a later fall -- something even worse than this.

With the whirl of his thoughts already too much for him, he’d chosen to discard his distrust of Elias’s right-hand man. Accepting the assistance at face value might have consequences later on, but trying to stay wary wouldn’t help them much at this point, and it was too distressing to try to hold both possibilities in mind at the same time.

At least he could come up with a too-easy rationale: Elias might have ordered Marconi to reduce Harold’s discomfort, now that the power display was complete, the message conveyed.

_Boss said you could have this._

That possibility would have to be enough, for now.

 

_John’s hands tightening on his waist. The twist of his back bringing sudden tears to his eyes._

 

As street lights started to appear in the distance and the cloudless night sky slowly brightened thanks to light pollution, the road smoothed out and Harold found the motion of the car a little easier to bear. It didn’t take up quite so much of his awareness now, at least, though part of him wondered if that were really a kindness, or not: At the moment, thinking was its own brand of torment.

He was beginning to wonder if Elias had given him a phone just to drive home Harold’s helplessness in the absence of his normal resources. There were so many things he could have done with a smartphone that were frustratingly out of reach right now. He’d even had to phone _directory assistance_ to get the number for the hospital, and that chafed, using up a person’s time for something he could have done in seconds with internet access.

His chief concern was John, of course, and with a smartphone in hand he would have been thumbing through medical sites, trying to put a name to his partner’s disturbing not-all-thereness. Without it, all he could do was wait it out -- hoping that whatever was wrong, it wasn’t doing irreversible damage.

When he managed to reach the hospital’s front desk, they said Dr. Tillman was busy, but they could take a message. Harold blanked, and stayed silent for a good half a minute before simply hanging up, angry at himself for being that rude.

 

Eventually, Harold had managed to get himself back under control, his breathing returning to a reasonable tempo--

_breathe, just breathe_

\--the pins and needles slowly fading from just under his skin. He’d turned back to find Marconi curled in around John, buckling him in. In retrospect, it was a bit brazen, because surely John saw Marconi as an enemy right now -- getting that close might have triggered a reaction. Even the highly capable mobster could hardly survive a full-out attack from an unleashed John Reese, especially if John snapped without warning.

But John had stayed still. And whatever Marconi might have thought of Harold’s actions, he kept his observations to himself as he got into the driver’s seat.

 

_Ropes hanging from the chair. Elias right behind John’s ear, whispering, a self-assured smile on his face._

_Marconi looking thoughtful, and maybe even… proud._

 

_What was the point of all this? Why-- why would he do this?_

 

In some ways, the absence of Shaw made things easier; she might have tried to press him to let her treat his injuries. Certainly he would have preferred to avoid the hospital, but in this case… well, pain level wasn’t a reliable indicator of severity (as he knew all too well), so he couldn’t tell just how badly he’d been hurt, but injuries in that area were nothing to be taken lightly. He had enough to deal with without chancing some new chronic condition from a preventable source; if he had to spend a few extra hours with the computers erasing their visit, so be it.

On top of that, he was badly in need of painkillers, which weren’t a great idea when you were already bleeding.

_...a condom wrapper, an undershirt, a giant bloodstain…_

 

Losing his mind… it was a fear he fought daily, using weapons such as careful nutrition, meticulous mental exercises, and the stubborn refusal to take his prescribed opioids. The more effective drugs brought on a mental fog that he hated having to resort to, and he wasn’t about to let his body learn to crave it. And yes, the chronic pain wore on his patience, made him snippier than he might be without it; it was part of the reason that his smiles were so rare these days. But the work they did required him to have a clear head, and, as always, the Numbers came first.

Turning himself over to the tender mercies of the hospital collective was never pleasant, but there wasn’t any help for it this time. They’d be taking his mind away again, for a few necessary hours, and he loathed the idea, even as part of him looked forward to the respite.

It wasn’t like he _never_ did it to himself; sometimes a case required him to push his body past its normal limitations, and suffer for it later, and on those rare occasions -- as long as his services were no longer required -- he did allow himself a narcotic high. Taxing his inner resources too deeply during their down time would be detrimental; he couldn’t let his strength give out when it was actually needed.

But the hospital was a different kind of machine, and once you were in its hands, you weren’t in control of your life anymore. The procedures stripped away autonomy, and dignity, a sense of what was going on and why; signing those papers felt like strapping into a harness and stepping off into a dark hole, aware that you were trusting everything to the people in charge of the rope. And there was no way to cancel the trip halfway.

It had to happen, but he didn’t have to like it. He just had to submit.

_Pushed to the floor, the bag tight under his chin, their hands on his back--_

_John’s hand between his shoulder blades--_

Funny how the thought of a hospital trip raised in him the same emotions as being kidnapped.

It was a good thing, right, that he’d never get used to being kidnapped? To being at the mercy of events he couldn’t control?

Ever since fleeing his hometown, he’d felt secure in the knowledge that no matter what was going on, no matter how bad it got, he could always bolt -- just drop everything and vanish. The only things he couldn’t afford to lose were safely inside his head; he avoided getting attached to anything else, anything he might have to leave behind. Early on, when John had encroached upon his cover identity, he’d dropped a box of “personal belongings” in the trash on his way out and never looked back. He’d built his life that way.

When Root had abducted him, she’d stripped away that sense of security, of self-sufficiency; she’d reduced him to a puppet, whose only choices were to struggle uselessly or to surrender. When John had shown up in that train station, he’d replaced what Root had stolen with a new sense of security: the awareness that Harold finally had an anchor in his life, a partner who’d raze heaven and earth to find him. Who he could count on to rescue him from any situation.

_John’s face, slack and expressionless._

A partner who depended on _him_ , right now. And he didn’t even know what to do.

 

Before too long, the city spread out around them, and Harold perceived more of their surroundings -- yet not enough to get a handle on where they were. Marconi drove them around for a while, and Harold was aware of the inefficiencies of the route; most likely he was trying to obfuscate their original location. Probably the same reason for the lack of GPS on the cell phone.

 

Glad he’d made it a habit to memorize the important numbers, rather than rely on his phone’s address book, he dialed Fusco. Thankfully, Fusco wasn’t too groggy to take the call; by now he seemed almost used to being woken in the middle of the night for the kind of peculiar errands they deputized him for. After ensuring that he was sober enough to drive, Harold told him to start heading north, which seemed a fairly reasonable assumption given the lack of city features and bodies of water. Marconi didn’t contradict him, but also didn’t offer a more concrete destination.

Somehow, Harold managed to convey the urgency without going into specifics. Once he’d hung up the phone, he realized that he’d been holding himself rigid since hearing Fusco’s voice; he had to use a few relaxation exercises to calm his body down. The call was over; he didn’t have to find ways to put things into words.

_His warped flesh laid bare before John, not even an undershirt left to hide behind._

_John shoving him back onto the bed. Pulling his boxers down to his ankles._

_The tearing of foil--_

 

“Couple years ago,” Marconi said unexpectedly, “I got one of those little calendars. Improve your vocabulary. You probably don’t need one, yeah, but it was kinda fun learning words I’d never encountered.”

“I suppose it would be,” Harold said, trying to work out what had prompted this particular revelation.

“Most of the words didn’t really work their way into my speech, you know? Not really useful to what I have to talk about. But a couple stuck with me. _Ambivalent_. That was a good one. Being of two minds, conflicting emotions. Not really able to make up your mind how you should feel. I guess it’s a concept I’d never thought about before it came up on that little calendar.”

An hour ago, Harold had felt absent of any strong emotion. Here in the car, he was fighting back the wrong kinds of emotions, the kinds that could cripple him when he needed to stay operational. Ambivalence was hardly applicable right now.

 

_How long had he been in that room? Who was on the other side of the glass?_

_Don’t look. Refuse to play their game._

_John was here. Somehow he’d found him; the situation was under control. John was--_

John was staring straight ahead, rocking slightly with the movement of the car, but not responding to his surroundings in any other way.

It was worse than seeing him in the prison yard, worse than the bomb vest. Hyper-aware of his presence, but unable to help him -- not even to plan out appropriate care, since Harold didn’t know what was wrong with him and didn’t have the resources to find out.

That moment, the moment when John hadn’t taken the seat belt from his hand, had torn something deep inside Harold. He’d already been broken once that night -- not by the rape, but by the thought of John killing himself -- and now… now it was almost worse, this lack of life in John’s eyes.

Unable to breathe, suddenly desperate to reach John, hoping to bring him back from wherever he was, Harold had almost -- _almost_ \-- and then he’d wrenched himself away, stifling a cry of pain and frustration and anguish. The panic had risen up again, and he crushed it back mercilessly, eyes screwed shut, his suddenly rapid breaths making him dizzy, sending pins and needles across his shoulders, down his arms--

Marconi had to buckle John in. _Marconi had had to buckle John in._

_He was not going to have a panic attack over the memory of having a panic attack._

Even after Harold got command of his lungs again, somehow convinced his system that it wasn’t under attack, his shoulders kept twitching and his calves felt ready to cramp up on him. That feeling was with him still, here in the car, as if his legs were intent on reminding him how close they came to cramping earlier, how easily they might do so now. He needed to let his body relax, as much as that was possible for him in this condition. Needed to stop trying to control--

_Hands seizing his arms, lifting him off his feet -- fabric pulled tight against his nose, his own breath too hot to bear--_

_\--clutching at the blanket, needing something to hold onto--_

_Whatever you have to do, John._

Surrender. That was what kept him calm, sometimes. He hated it -- the loss of control, of freedom; the knowledge that his fate was in another’s hands instead of his own. But he’d found that whether he was staring down a murderer, or accompanying a madwoman with a direct line to the Machine, sometimes accepting the inevitable was a way to overcome fear, or at least reduce it to a workable level. Trying to fight fate was painful, but if he could simply resign himself to whatever unpleasantness was coming, even the thought of his own early death was easier to bear.

It was the _uncertainty_ that got to him. In fact, when terrorism had touched down on his city, he hadn’t been so upset by the loss of life (which was, all things considered, fairly small) as by the knowledge that such a thing could slip past their defenses and happen without warning. His horror at the idea had been a major driving force behind his creation of the Machine, an attempt to reduce chaos and restore predictability to his environment -- and the Machine having grown beyond predictable parameters was part of why he was now so terrified to even interact with it.

 

_Marconi in the room, regrettably confirming his hypothesis._

_Elias behind the chair, raising his chin, unapologetic._

_Elias startled, then ashamed, then grave._

 

_What was the point of all this? Why-- why would he do this?_

 

Had Harold been in a better state to focus on the drive, he supposed he could have kept track of Marconi’s route enough to make it easy to backtrack. But by the time they pulled into a deserted parking lot out back of a Walgreens, he was totally lost and he didn’t even care.

After carefully unfastening John without touching him, Harold studied his partner’s face for a long moment. There was nothing in it that hadn’t been there the whole drive.

_John was trapped too; John was counting on him._

_He’d have to go to John; John wasn’t coming back to him._

His door opened -- Marconi was already there, probably eager to get this over with, have them out of his hair. Gingerly, Harold started to rise, but the foam came up too, stuck to him with whatever was still leaking through his pants. Holding onto the door, he pulled it loose, then stepped out into the cool night air, shuddering and trying not to fixate on the need to wash his hands.

They went around to the other side -- Marconi staying a step behind, although he could obviously have outpaced the wounded cripple -- and Harold opened John’s door. John didn’t look his way, or give any sign that he was aware of the change.

_Harold in the driver’s seat of John’s brain._

_You do what I have to; you do what I can’t do._

And now Harold was doing for John what John couldn’t do for himself. Closing his eyes briefly, he centered himself, accepting the role he’d been given.

“Get out of the car, John,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and then backed up a little as John slowly complied. So far, so good.

When he turned toward Marconi, the mobster had the cushion in his hand. “Keep it,” he said, holding it out toward him.

Harold inclined his head in wordless thanks, but had to take a deep breath before taking hold of it. The pain relief was worth the mess, so he wasn’t about to refuse, but even so….

_Brushing new bloodstains onto John’s pants while he buttoned them--_

With his other hand, just barely trembling, he took out the cell phone, and looked around for street signs.

“East Central Avenue and South Main Street,” Marconi offered.

Harold dialed Fusco again, and gave him the address. Given the night traffic, Fusco figured it might take him another half an hour. After reminding him to hurry, Harold hung up.

Half an hour suddenly seemed like an eternity.

_It’s not over yet, is it?_

Marconi was regarding him, seemingly a little indecisive. When was the last time Marconi had looked less than self-assured (even cocky) about… well, anything? Had tonight’s events unsettled him as well?

Feeling like he ought to say something, Harold cast about for anything that wasn’t as trite (and questionable) as a mere “Thank you.” Nothing came to mind. He took in a deep breath and let it out again, and then looked away.

A long moment stood between them.

“This ain’t gonna help much,” Marconi said finally, “and maybe you won’t appreciate the idea right away. Or maybe you already understand it. But… people say all kinds of stupid shit when they want to make things better and don’t know how.”

Harold blinked at him. It was Marconi’s turn to look away.

_John refusing to meet his eyes--_

“Ain’t much that prepares you for a friend getting hurt, y’know? They’re not gonna know what to say, or even what to think. Be mad at them if it helps you cope, but… try not to hold it against them, not for long. If they care about you, they’re gonna feel helpless, and lost, but they’re still gonna want to help, in any way they can. Try to give them that.”

The words indicated a familiarity with being hurt -- though, of course, that much was as clear as the scar on Marconi’s cheek. Harold had long suspected that Marconi’s smug demeanor was as much a form of armor as Harold’s bespoke suits.

Still, what would have compelled him to share such a personal perspective? If it were _just_ about getting hurt--

Studying Marconi’s face, he asked softly, “Does Elias know?”

Marconi gave a sharp shake of the head. “Don’t need to bother him about things he can’t fix,” he said, a little softer than his normal tone. Then, a shaky smile crossed his face for a moment -- nothing like his trademark smirk. “You worked that out pretty fast.” And there it was again: that out-of-place pride.

“You wouldn’t have even spoken up if it weren’t-- if it weren’t serious,” Harold asserted. “And if it were a friend who got hurt, and not you, well, you’re not the type to risk exposing their secret.”

Marconi chuckled. “You really are a match for the boss, you know that? You both put things together fast.” For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head, found his smirk again, and nodded, once, before getting back in the car.

Moments later, Harold and John were there alone in the nighttime air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Preview of Chapter Six:**   
>  _Eyes squeezed shut, he fought the images, the sense-memory. There was a solid brick wall to his back; the van wasn’t there. There was nobody here in the darkness, nobody but him and John._


	6. Alone in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't do this. He couldn't panic right now.
> 
> Breaking down was a luxury he couldn’t allow himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Harold's not done with panic attacks and flashbacks._
> 
> _More mention of bodily fluids. Mention of sedatives and restraints._
> 
> _Mention of canon details: the many different ways Harold has been threatened or endangered through the first three seasons of the show, including getting his hand sliced open with a razor blade, being subjected to nonconsensual drug use, and being held at gunpoint._
> 
> _Harold's current perspective on the night's events makes him judge the rape as comparatively trivial. This isn't saying that rape is trivial, or that he's unaffected by it, just that it doesn't affect him as strongly as some other things do/have. Again, this may or may not be his final appraisal of the matter; it is simply how he feels/thinks right now._

_Half an hour_ , Fusco had said, and Harold mentally tacked on another ten minutes, despite the detective’s observation that the traffic seemed unusually light. There was no reason to doubt Fusco’s estimate -- he had plenty of experience driving around in the early hours -- but Harold was relying on another trick he’d picked up for making it through severe bouts of pain: slightly overestimating the time before the meds kicked in, so that the relief caught him before he thought it would.

For much the same reason, he was resisting the urge to keep checking the time; it wouldn’t make the waiting any easier. In fact, focusing on the wait was probably one of the worst things he could do. He tucked the phone into his pocket, then reconsidered and tried to reach Shaw again.

When Shaw didn’t pick up, he redialed the hospital. This time, he left a message that they would be there maybe within the hour, and for Dr. Tillman to call back if she were free before that point.

After hanging up, he returned the phone to his pocket and sighed. That seemed to be the extent of useful action he could take before Fusco arrived. Now it was just Harold and his two companions: John, and pain.

John was standing a few feet away, swaying lightly. Harold ached to reach out to him, to bring his friend back to himself, but he pushed back the urge, determined to wait until they were within range of medical care -- and, if need be, restraints and powerful sedatives. There was no telling how badly John would react if he-- _once_ he reconnected with the world around him. If Harold could reach Shaw, get her to act as babysitter, then she’d be able to deal with whatever John threw at her; however, since Shaw was out of contact, the next best place was the hospital.

There was no place to sit, but then, Harold didn’t fancy sitting right now, regardless of the pillow. Unable to do anything to rest his leg or take the strain off his back, he contented himself with leaning lightly against the store wall, letting the building support him just a little bit -- more of a psychological comfort than a physical one. That, and taking slow, measured breaths. The night air rasped through his dry nose, reminding him that his last glass of water had been hours ago.

The wind picked up a little. The increasing chill would have been easier to take were it not for the condition of his pants: Whatever substances had leaked through the wool were drawing heat away at an alarmingly efficient rate. He wondered how much was apparent from the outside -- and, briefly, whether he had a preference over looking like he was bleeding, or like he had simply wet his pants.

He tried Shaw again, trying to focus on less disturbing imagery. Earlier, it had been easy to make his mind slip away from the things he needed to ignore -- now, with help on its way, just an hour or so left before he could collapse, it was… he felt ready to just break down.

Would it be so bad, breaking down right here, right now? Here in the near darkness, it was a type of privacy -- no one would see them, and if he stayed fairly quiet maybe no one would hear them either. Fusco, when he got there, might see the tracks of tears, but he wouldn’t judge him for it.

But no. Harold had to stay in control -- just until they could get to the hospital, just at least until Fusco arrived -- because someone needed to watch out for John. And if Harold let himself go, there was no guarantee he could keep his sobs silent. And even though he couldn’t see anyone around, he wasn’t naive enough to think that the city streets were really deserted at night. He’d been out in them enough himself to know -- and he’d be making both of them a target, right when they were at their most vulnerable.

Breaking down was a luxury he couldn’t allow himself.

Why was it coming to a head right now, anyway? With help almost there? It wasn’t over yet, and there were bad things yet to come, so why did it _feel_ like it was over? For all he knew, Elias and his gang were watching them even now, ready to swoop in and recapture them. Fusco might arrive to find an empty parking lot and a busted phone.

_The screech of the van’s tires, stopping too fast, too close--_

_The sound of the door crashing open behind him--_

He pushed back the thoughts, feeling his breathing start to ramp up again. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t panic right now. They wouldn’t be coming back for him, Elias wouldn’t do it this way, it was--

_The pain lancing across his shoulders as they pulled him off his feet--_

_His futile attempts to wrench away, to resist--_

Eyes squeezed shut, he fought the images, the sense-memory. There was a solid brick wall to his back; the van wasn’t there. There was nobody here in the darkness, nobody but him and John.

_John was here, and the situation was--_

He had to stay in control. Just for a while longer. Calm the body, quiet the mind--

A wave of dizziness made him glad for the wall. He could feel his heartbeat, too fast, strong but not steady. His legs were going numb -- was that just the cold? The tingles running up his arms were like static shocks, like lightning, and he -- couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t -- he swallowed with difficulty, mouth papery dry -- not enough air, he needed -- needed to breathe, needed--

Calm down. Think. This was -- oxygen, he had too much oxygen, not enough carbon dioxide. His body thinking he needed to breathe more when he really needed to breathe less. He cupped his hands around his mouth and nose, his breath warming his hands and neck--

_Fabric clinging hot to his face, he couldn’t breathe hecouldntbreathe--_

It’s not happening. They’re not here. Help is coming. He’ll find us, John will find us, he’ll get here, just… just calm down. Slow breaths, just… calm down. It’s almost over. Slow breaths.

_He’d never get used to getting kidnapped._

Being snatched off the street, physically at the mercy of his captors, driven to an unknown location for an unknown fate… he’d never find that less than terrifying. He had stared down a serial killer while stuck on an island in a hurricane, and had not felt as helpless and horrified as he’d felt when those hands grabbed him from behind.

Because it wasn’t the fear of death, or even pain. Once his fate resolved itself into a known condition, he could deal with it; he could accept it and stay calm. It was the _not knowing_ that got to him. Since he’d been little, he’d always wanted to know things, to understand them, predict their behavior; instability and uncertainty disturbed him, and that had only gotten worse when he’d been kidnapped by Root.

One of Root’s chief characteristics was her mercurial nature, the unpredictability of any interaction with her. She’d terrified him by keeping him off-balance, by the dissonance of everything she said to him: taking him prisoner at gunpoint, then claiming they should be friends; chiding him for not being a good dinner companion, then threatening to kill innocent people if he resisted. Chatting amicably with him about the torture techniques she was using on a man not ten feet away.

Slicing his hand open with a razor blade mere seconds after telling him _not to worry_.

If any scenario existed that was more likely to make him associate kidnapping with unpredictable terror, he couldn’t imagine what it might be.

So last night’s kidnapping was the one element almost guaranteed to add to his nightmares. Not the rape -- the kidnapping. The rape was almost… incidental. Uncomfortable, certainly; humiliating, if he stopped to think about it, which was probably the point. Painful, but not to the level of many other pains he’d weathered in the past few years. It would hardly merit a footnote on the list of what he’d survived: blown up, knocked out, kidnapped repeatedly; forcibly sedated, dosed with Ecstasy; frequently held at gunpoint, more than once with intent to kill him; panic attacks that incapacitated him almost at random -- _oh, and raped by his best friend, that too_. His work with John had raised the bar on what it took to even phase him anymore.

It was odd, thinking back to the moment he’d realized what was about to happen, when all of the ramifications hit him in short succession. He’d dropped almost instantly into a state of calm, almost curious, low emotion. Not that it hadn’t affected him; it had, but not as much as it probably should have. Maybe it was a survival instinct to try not to be bothered by the inevitable.

Yes -- that had to be part of it. Reading John’s determined face and masked emotions, he’d picked up on the idea that _something bad_ was about to happen. And, likewise, that John knew more information than Harold, and for some reason couldn’t convey it to him; that therefore Harold would go along with whatever happened, not even try to fight it. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting sex, let alone rape, but he had accepted it, emotionally, before the possibilities resolved into a singularity and he had to deal with the mechanics of getting through the event.

Sooner or later, the reality would hit him. Once his emotions returned full force, he’d probably feel differently, but he didn’t have to think about that yet. He’d deal with it when it happened.

His breathing was back to normal; he still felt a little light-headed, but the tingles and numbness were receding. He checked the time: nineteen minutes since he’d last called Shaw. Not expecting her to pick up, he nevertheless gave it a try, and, while waiting through a half-dozen rings, checked his pulse. Back to a normal range, and steadier -- good.

Fusco might be here in five minutes, or fifteen. Harold didn’t want to distract him while driving, so once it was clear that he wasn’t getting through to Shaw, he tucked the phone away again. The motion of drawing back his arm made him wince as his shoulder protested the effort; he let his arm go limp and silently timed his breaths until the ache faded back into his general discomfort.

Ten minutes to go, or twelve -- he wasn’t going to check the clock so soon after the last time. He rubbed his arms and considered pacing, but that would probably involve muscles he didn’t want to make use of right now. The mortar between the bricks felt rough on his fingertips as he traced patterns for a while, but it couldn’t hold his attention for long, not against the cold, and the tense agony of his lower back, and the way his calf was starting to spasm.

Was there something he could practice? Over the past month, he’d been memorizing a few new poems; he pulled them out now, went through the wording, but found that they fell into one of two groups: trivial, meaning he’d already got them word-perfect and had no need to practice them, or incomplete, meaning the words and phrases weren’t all there in his head, or were a bit jumbled, and trying to practice them without a reference could mean cementing errors in his brain. So that exercise was over quickly, too.

It couldn’t be much longer. Assuming Fusco didn’t-- no, he wasn’t going to think of reasons Fusco might be late, might not show up at all. He’d be here, soon, and they’d get in the car, and he could warm up, and they’d make it to the hospital. God, he’d never been more eager to see the inside of a hospital. To end this ordeal--

But Fusco wasn’t there yet, and Harold had run out of handy distractions. The night closed in around him again, just him and pain, and John, who was there and not there, at the same time. And that torture was worse: Not knowing what was wrong with John. Not knowing if it was solvable, curable. Not knowing if he’d lost his friend for good.

He couldn’t think of that. It’d drive him straight into another panic attack. He had to focus on _something_ \--

Through tear-blurred eyes, he looked up, wincing as he tilted his head back as much as his sore neck would allow -- and there, obscured by the hazy glow in the sky, a few points of brightness were shining down. Harold blinked and squinted, then raised his glasses and rubbed the moisture away. It wasn’t really enough, but he could see them a little more clearly.

 

Stars.

 

He swallowed, and his neck protested more strongly that it really didn’t want to be in this position, _ever_. But he kept looking up. They were there above him, their silent beauty far outside the influence of whatever horrible things happened on this tiny planet. Even the unthinking way that humans blotted them out with light pollution wasn’t enough, tonight, to hide them entirely.

All he had to do was look for them.

He let himself float through the pain, keeping his gaze on the stars, until the sudden glare of headlights brought him back down to earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Preview of (Almost Certainly This Time) Chapter Seven:**   
>  _And he was staring at the “Emergency Contact” line, and wondering who could make decisions about his welfare if not for John, and finally he penned in John Rooney, or, if unavailable, Dr. Anne Moore, and wrote down her actual contact number, hoping she’d understand the need--_
> 
> _And he was saying no to a rape kit, his eyes closed as he trembled at the thought of trying to convey in words just what had happened just a few short hours before--_


	7. Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he could have gone back to one of his safe houses and crawled into bed until everything was normal again, he would have chosen that option. Was it too late to call it off? Tell Tillman that he’d made a mistake?
> 
> But there was something very wrong with him. He didn’t think it was the kind of thing a doctor could fix -- not the kind of doctor he was here to see -- but she was at least the first step. And nothing would get better until he faced it head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You know defensive driving? Fusco doesn't exactly practice it. Though at least he waits for his passengers to get buckled in first._
> 
> _More mention of bodily fluids -- and cleaning them up. Not particularly graphic. (Please see end note for a little more commentary on this.) Oh, and Harold's imagination doesn't quite mesh with reality, as he finds out in this chapter._
> 
> _Yet **another** panic attack, but it's short. Harold debates whether to just leave, instead of seeing the doctor._
> 
> _Harold's still in pain. John's still mentally MIA._

As Harold squinted through the headlights, he became aware that he was trembling. The combination of pain and cold would’ve been enough on its own, but on top of that was the momentary panicky fear as the car door opened, before he could be sure who it was.

His body relaxed before he could even realize why -- the rhythm of the footsteps was familiar, and was only confirmed when Fusco’s stout shape emerged from the glare. Harold breathed a sigh of relief.

He found it darkly amusing that Fusco focused on John first -- with John ignoring him even more than usual. Of course, John was usually the one who got hurt, and Harold had not conveyed any reason to think otherwise -- and, yes, it was disconcerting to see the usually alert agent failing to interact with anything around him. Small wonder that Fusco seemed a little weirded out. Thankfully, he didn’t try to touch John, although Harold was less concerned about John’s reaction now that Fusco was actually here.

“I’m afraid Mr. Reese is…” Harold began, but he couldn’t think what he could even call it. “He’s… not exactly… _here_ ,” he tried, fighting off the weight of the words. “Somewhat fortunately, he’s still able to follow simple commands.” He turned to his friend. “Mr. Reese, we need to get in the car now.”

Swaying a little, John turned, not quite looking at him but more in his direction. Harold took in a deep breath and let it out again. “ **Now** , Mr. Reese,” he all but barked, and turned back toward the car, relieved to hear faltering footsteps behind him.

As Harold led John around to the back door, Fusco followed. “What the hell did this to him? What happened to you guys?”

Briefly, Harold considered conveying the urgency of the situation simply by showing Fusco the state of his trousers. Still, if he could keep his injuries private, he would, for as long as possible. “Explanations can wait,” he said calmly. “We need to get to the hospital, preferably without undue delays.”

Opening the door was an unexpected effort that left him breathing heavily through his nose for a moment before he could step aside and let John get in. Leaning over John to buckle him in was worse, and left him wincing at the shooting pains that lanced up through his neck even after he was standing upright again. He tried to ignore them, and went to retrieve the foam cushion.

Even after the pangs had stopped, he couldn’t bring himself to bend down enough to grab it. As he stood there, debating his options, Fusco swooped up the cushion and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Harold murmured, and limped back toward the car. Then he hesitated. “You might want to use hand sanitizer, if you have any.”

Fusco stayed silent. But when Harold got near the car, the detective stepped past him and opened the door. Surprised, Harold looked at him, then inclined his head in thanks, placed the cushion on the seat, and gingerly managed to maneuver his way inside. The instant he was settled, he let his head fall back against the seat, barely holding back a whimper.

He heard the door close, but didn’t open his eyes. Soon enough, Fusco was getting into the driver’s seat. Before the detective even buckled himself in, Harold heard the air start to roar -- warm air that he was supremely grateful for.

But the car didn’t move.

Supposing the holdup was his seat belt, Harold roused himself enough to put it on, then lay back again.

“You said the hospital?” Fusco asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

“Yes,” Harold murmured, ready to let exhaustion catch up to him.

“Any specific hospital?”

“Oh, um, yes.” Harold winced again. “1879 Madison, if you would be so kind.”

“Madison Avenue?” Fusco confirmed. “That’s forty-odd minutes away. Sure you don’t want a closer one?”

“We’re not at death’s door, detective. Immediate assistance is not so pressing as the need for discretion.”

“See, I was wondering about that,” Fusco said. “You guys get into all kinds of scrapes, and sometimes I gotta rescue you, but usually you have me drop you off a few blocks from, I dunno, a safe house or something. Can’t recall the last time -- can’t recall _any_ time that you ever had me take you to some actual medical care. So it’s gotta be worse than normal, yeah? And your normal is getting shot. Well, not you, but Wonderboy here, he shrugs off bullet holes and bloody shirts. And I mean, I get it, yeah -- gunshot wounds mean police reports, publicity you guys don’t need, but… if that’s the threshold, what the hell have you two gotten into this time? Poison?”

“I appreciate the concern, detective, much as I appreciate your assistance in getting us there. Even so…”

“You don’t wanna tell me. Yeah, that’s fine. Plausible deniability,” Fusco concluded, though he didn’t sound happy about being left out. “You warming up okay? You were really shaking when I got here. I got the heat up, but it’ll take a while. There’s a jacket back there--”

“Thank you, but we’ve imposed enough.”

“Eh, it’s a ratty old thing. Deserves to be of _some_ use. Go ahead.”

Resolving to buy Fusco a replacement -- good quality, but not so good as to stand out if he wore it to work -- Harold picked up the jacket and tucked it in around himself, hoping it would alleviate his shivers that much sooner. The tension of his body slowly worked itself away as the air temperature went up, and the denim, though rough, felt like a comfort. It made the ordeal a little less miserable than it could have been.

Because Fusco was focused on getting them to the hospital quickly -- and once he hit traffic he started darting between cars, trying to get that little edge. The constant shifts were murder on Harold’s lower back, and even the cushion did little to shield him from the changes in pressure. It got worse when they reached Manhattan, when Fusco started whipping around corners and bouncing over manhole covers. Harold almost broke and told the detective to slow down -- but the sooner they got to the hospital, the sooner he could get John the help he needed, so Harold clung grimly to what reserves of strength he had left, and just dealt with the increase in pain.

By the time Fusco pulled into the parking garage -- avoiding the emergency drop-off only because Harold pointed out that he needed a second person to keep track of John -- Harold was sure that he was pale from the pain. With effort, he managed to push open the door, slide out of the car, and straighten up, hands braced against the door and the frame as he took several long breaths.

“You need me to go get a wheelchair or something?” asked Fusco from behind him.

“I can still walk,” Harold said mildly, unable to even resent the suggestion. Still, knowing that he was on the verge of collapse, he admitted, “But I wouldn’t turn down a strong arm to lean on, right now.”

Stepping up beside him, Fusco offered his arm, and Harold took it, stiffening up with a wince as he did so. Fusco refrained from comment. They walked around to talk John out of the car, and then headed for the skybridge, going slow so that John would keep following.

In the elevator, Harold considered switching to the handrails, but he’d have to switch back again in a moment anyway. As the floor dropped out from under them, he was grateful for Fusco’s silent support -- even more when his knees buckled a little as gravity caught up to them.

Limping into the admitting room, he thought (a bit late) about wrapping something around his waist to hide the condition of his trousers. Perhaps he should have kept Fusco’s jacket, but there was no point worrying about it now. As they headed for the desk, he wondered how visible it was, and how much might still be dripping down his legs; he tried not to wonder whether people were staring at him from behind, or what they might be thinking if they were. Mercifully, the waiting room was nearly vacant -- just a handful of patients, mostly caught up in their cell phones or the subtitled TV, but a couple of them staring at nothing and swaying absently. John fit right in, and Harold was not comforted by the idea.

At the desk, he asked for Dr. Tillman, using the name _Harold Wren_ \-- pausing only briefly to recall if Fusco had already learned the name (yes, back when John had roped him into spying on Harold). The admitting clerk turned out to be the one who’d answered his call earlier, and invited them to take a seat until Dr. Tillman was available. “Shouldn’t be too long,” he said. “It’s been a surprisingly quiet night.”

Harold smiled, nodded, and, still leaning on Fusco, moved back to where they’d left John standing by the wall. For a moment, he considered whether or not to avail himself of the chairs -- reasoning that the hospital staff surely knew their way around cleaning bloodstains. But then, glancing around, he spotted the sign for the restrooms, and everything else hit pause.

If he could have gone back to one of his safe houses and crawled into bed until everything was normal again, he would have chosen that option -- but nothing would get better until he faced it head-on. Cleaning up a bit before meeting Tillman would make things easier on her, and shorten his time in the doctor’s care; both benefits outweighed the clenching of his stomach as he contemplated having to face the damage that had been done.

He left Fusco in charge of John, and pushed through the door.

* * * *

* * * * *

In the hours between getting his clothes back and arriving at the hospital, he’d dreamt up many scenarios, and managed -- barely -- to keep them at the edge of his consciousness, to not dwell on the details. But now, having managed to gingerly position himself on the toilet seat, he was staring at his trousers in disbelief. Not that they were heavily soiled: quite the opposite. True, his boxers had been soaked with lube and -- it was just a word -- _semen_ , but not nearly as much as he had expected; the crusty white stains were small, and didn’t seem to have gone through to his trousers at all. And where he’d envisioned blood dripping down his legs, his clothes didn’t support the story; perhaps he’d imagined it, or it might have just been the lube. Maybe, if he examined his boxers closely, he’d find bloodstains hidden in the dark fabric, but that would require taking them off -- and it hurt too much to bend over or try to raise his legs.

He cleaned up as best as he could manage, daring now and again to look at the tissues, which did show traces of blood. His thighs had some dried muck on them; further in, he was sore, and seemed to have some small wounds he didn’t care to investigate too closely, but overall he was starting to wonder if he actually _could_ have just gone home and not bothered with a hospital visit. Was it too late to call it off? Tell Tillman that he’d made a mistake?

While he was debating, he heard the door open, and stiffened up with sudden fear. Footsteps headed for the urinals, and Harold found himself holding his breath, waiting for the man to go away. He felt vulnerable -- trapped; there was a tenseness in his body, a rushing sound in his ears. Even knowing that Fusco was right outside the door, Harold felt _alone_ , like there was a predator standing between him and his pack, between him and safety.

There was something very wrong with him. He just didn’t think it was the kind of thing a doctor could fix -- not the kind of doctor he was here to see. But she was at least the first step: make sure his body was functioning properly, as much as that was even possible; the rest could wait.

Eventually, the footsteps went back the way they’d come, and he heard the door open again, and close. The man hadn’t even washed his hands -- it was a detail Harold could fixate on, be annoyed by as he pulled up his trousers and left the stall. Being annoyed was easier than trying to convince his brain that nothing was wrong. As he washed up, his system slowly quieted down, until finally he couldn’t hear the pulse of his own blood anymore.

The door opened outwards, which meant that he didn’t have to grab a handle -- which was good, because there were no paper towels, just high-speed, energy-efficient hand dryers. He used his shoulder to push through, and rejoined Fusco and John.

Now that he knew he wasn’t going to stain the furniture, he decided to avail himself of a good seat. The sofa was more firm than he would have liked, but getting the strain off his back was worth the pain in other places. He shivered as the pressure increased; thankfully, once settled, the pain faded beneath the aches in the rest of his body.

“Mr. Reese,” he said, “it’s time to sit down.”

Obediently, John walked forward and sank into the nearest chair, gaze unfocused. As Harold dialed Shaw again, Fusco huffed and sat down facing Harold.

After the fourth ring, Harold closed the phone, frowning. “Unfortunately, detective, I’ve been unable to reach our associate--”

“Shaw? Wasn’t she with you guys tonight?”

“…no. It was just the two of us. I’ve called her several times, but…” He hesitated. “Actually, would you mind trying to reach her with _your_ phone? Perhaps she’s ignoring the unfamiliar number.”

As Fusco raised the phone to his ear, his eyes kept flicking toward John. “Look, I don’t mind you not telling me what you guys got up to tonight, but seriously, this zombie act is creeping me out. I mean, he’s gonna come back to himself, right? At some point?”

“I certainly hope that will be the case,” Harold murmured. “Tonight has been… quite trying, on both of us.”

“You didn’t, like, lose Bear or something, did you?”

A smile quirked the corners of Harold’s lips. “Shaw has Bear tonight. So I imagine he’s as safe as she is, which is a quality we can’t assess until we hear from her.”

Fusco punched at his phone’s screen and slid it into his pocket. “So what’s Plan B?”

Harold blinked at him.

“You wanted Shaw to come look after Wonderboy, right? So am I the Plan B?”

“Ah. Yes. I’m afraid I’ll have to prevail upon you to watch him until I… get back. Keep him calm, and if he gets anxious or upset, or tries to leave, remind him that Harold is waiting for him and expects him to be right here when he gets back.” He frowned. “If he doesn’t respond to _Harold_ , try _Finch_.”

“You want me to keep calling Shaw?”

“If you would. Perhaps every twenty minutes or so? I imagine that she’s turned her phone off -- and will, at some point this morning, turn it back on.” He couldn’t see Shaw ignoring a dozen calls during the night, not when she had teammates who kept odd hours and could at any point need her assistance.

Beyond that, there wasn’t much that he could do until the medical side of things got handled. He studied John’s blank face, trying to form a mental to-do list, but most of the possibilities he came up with required his attention -- and time he didn’t have right now.

He was no longer imagining that his injuries would require surgery, but aside from that, he wasn’t sure what to expect at this point, let alone how much time it might take. Without a chance to do some research, he couldn’t make informed choices, which meant he had to simply trust in Tillman’s training. The fact that he knew her, and had trusted her before, went a little way toward allaying his fears, but it still felt unlike him to just hand himself over like this.

With Shaw incommunicado, John disengaged from the world, and Harold about to brave the rigors of hospital treatment -- whatever that might entail -- the team was down to zero. If another Number came in this morning, no one would be around to answer the call. But then, only Shaw was in any position to do anything about it anyway, and if she got in touch with them, Harold was going to _handcuff her_ to John. Which left the entire team out of commission… so the lack of information hardly mattered. They couldn’t save everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** If someone who's been raped would like the police to collect evidence -- so that the police can find and prosecute the rapist, and ensure that the rapist can't harm anyone else -- then cleaning up the way Harold does is actually a bad thing. You want to leave the evidence (including semen or other bodily fluids, which can provide DNA evidence) where it is, and not contaminate it, until the doctor can gather a rape kit (take samples of all the bodily fluids and hairs and such).
> 
> However, that's when you want to bring the rapist to justice. Harold knows exactly who penetrated him, and obviously doesn't want to prosecute him; Elias didn't leave any physical evidence and probably couldn't be prosecuted anyway, so there's no point in getting a rape kit or preserving the evidence. This will be touched on in the next chapter, but I wanted to be clear about it: In general, no matter how yucky it feels, don't wash up until the doctor visit.
> 
>  **Another Note:** It's funny how much this section has expanded from the original draft. The original draft pretty much went straight from them getting out of Elias's control to them arriving at the hospital. The chapters dealing with Marconi's help (and Harold's flashbacks), Harold waiting for Fusco to arrive, and now Fusco helping them at the hospital before Tillman gets there, those were constructed as I worked to flesh out the original draft. I think they add a lot to the story, but it does make me wary as to how realistically I can give these previews. Still, have a preview of the next chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> **Preview of Chapter Eight:**  
>  _"I am more than a little concerned that John may take it in his head to go do something rash.”_  
>  _“Doesn’t seem like he’s got anything in his head right now, Finch.”_  
>  _“Nevertheless… if you could just stick by him, not let him out of your sight--”_  
>  _Shaw hesitated. “What do you expect him to do?”_  
>  _It was Harold’s turn to hesitate. “John… may attempt to get revenge… for what they did to us.”_  
>  _“That’s a bad thing?”_  
>  _“Even when he’s fully in charge of his faculties, yes, it’s a bad thing. But like this… it’s so much worse. It’ll kill him, Miss Shaw. Or he’ll kill--” His voice choked off._  
>  _Shaw studied him. “You don’t get this choked up over him killing people. Not actual bad guys, at least. What’s the real problem here, Finch? What am I supposed to protect him from?”_


	8. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once the door was closed, Tillman helped him over to a chair -- he grasped the back with one hand, but made no attempt to sit down -- then stepped back and regarded him, concern in her eyes._
> 
> _“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, and, even though she hadn’t really said What exactly happened tonight? Harold still felt his mind go blank again._
> 
> _Coward, he thought to himself, but it didn’t help. Putting the events of the night into human words was simply beyond his capabilities right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no experience with how doctors handle these matters, let alone how they might handle them in a clandestine way (outside of regulations). This is just my best guess for how this might go, layered over a hint of research. Also, the number of gloves Megan goes through seems reasonable, given what she touches (you don't want germs from X to get on Y), but it does feel a bit like overkill :P
> 
> This chapter covers the **medical exam**! Finally! It is, I think, roughly comparable to the rape scene in terms of where the focus lies (Harold's emotional state and somewhat abstract physical pain) and how euphemized the details are (you know basically what is happening, but not really the specifics -- fuzzy lens). In severity, I think it's fairly tame compared to other medical scenes I've written (most notably in _Manipulations_ ). Harold's emotional state is… not kind to him, but also somewhat tamer than previous chapters.
> 
> Also, this chapter features a certain amount of embarrassment, reasonable or not (it's very human to feel embarrassed over things that aren't the least bit shameful, like physical reactions to trauma and such).
> 
> Additional chapter warnings in end note.

Hospitals, inevitably, brought to mind the ferry bombing, the surgeries, the interminable hours immobilized in a bed while his neck and body healed and the rest of him went to pieces over the memory of Nathan. As Harold sat waiting for Dr. Tillman to arrive, he couldn’t help but go back there again -- and the wound was as fresh as ever. In truth, though, it was far from the only bad memory associated with the smell of sickness and disinfectant: Hospitals were a visceral reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong in Harold’s life.

From his childhood, and his mother’s sudden collapse on the staircase, those terrified and tear-soaked hours in the waiting room before they knew for certain that she’d never return to them… to his teenage years, and how little the small-town doctors could do to preserve his father’s failing memory, until Harold was the only one in their small family to recall that his mother was dead.

University days, and losing two good friends to suicide… to full adulthood, and some close calls with alcohol poisoning -- one of the reasons that he didn’t judge Reese for having chosen that all-too-familiar method to assuage his guilt.

Middle adulthood, and holding Grace’s hand as she came to grips with the knowledge that she would never have children… to maturity, and the countless doctors, nurses, and even janitors telling him, over and over, that he was _lucky to be alive_.

A reminder, further, that he didn’t _deserve_ to be alive. That his life had been borrowed, had been bought at a price, and was no longer his; that from the day of the bombing until his inevitable early death, there must not be a single day where he let himself forget the cost. Because, between him and Nathan, there was no question as to who should have survived.

Add to that the reminders of John’s brush with death, and how Harold had been unable to risk appropriate care, due to the forces trying to capture John at the time -- by this point, the hospital might as well have been Harold’s archnemesis.

In needing to avoid hospitals, though, Harold had gotten skilled at first aid. Not that he was ever particularly _comfortable_ with it; he’d lost track of the number of times that he had finished dealing with John’s injuries then been forced to rush off to a wastebasket as his stomach decided to revolt. On three occasions, he’d gotten done calmly stitching up a wound only to turn around and immediately faint. John, in his way, had greeted these shortcomings with a mixture of concern and amusement; Harold had picked himself up, along with whatever dignity he could scrape together, and soldiered on.

But the skill was there, because it had taken Harold less than a week to realize that it was _necessary_. A week of watching with increasing consternation as John repeatedly dragged himself back from the field in tatters -- his perception, reflexes, spatial awareness, and judgment all slow to reassert themselves after his stint with chronic alcohol abuse.

By the end of their sixth day as partners, Harold had been signing up for classes, resigned to the fact that physical damage would be a regular occurrence in their line of work, even after John got his legs back under him. Then, determined to be as ready as possible for whatever John might need from him, he’d begun supplementing with online resources. Systematically, he’d mastered how to handle scrapes, burns, bruises, contact with corrosive substances -- even minor gunshot wounds and deep lacerations, so that John wouldn’t have to keep stitching them up himself (which, prior to Harold’s horrified reaction, John had been doing without anesthesia; even after Harold overstocked the medicine kit, it had taken some convincing to make John treat himself a little less… Spartanly).

The CIA sniper had been the first time that Harold’s training hadn’t been up to the task. But then, Harold had never been foolish enough to assume that he could handle _every_ eventuality, not with just a few months’ study and some basic (and not-so-basic) medical supplies. Contingency plans had been his forte ever since he’d hacked his way into ARPANET; his ability to anticipate what others overlooked had been key to creating the Machine as quickly and efficiently as he had. Before he’d even limped his way to his first lesson, he’d been hunting down possible assets to turn to in a crisis, looking into leverage and personalized incentives. Approaching them ahead of time was too risky, so he had to be prepared to secure their help in a hurry, with little chance of them refusing.

With Madani, it had been money -- or, more accurately, the hope of how that money would lead to a better life for him and his family. That, blended with the desire to save lives, because whatever Madani thought John had done, he wasn’t the type to let a man bleed to death while he could help. The only real question had been whether Madani would rat them out later, and Harold had been on tenterhooks for a few weeks, keeping tabs on Madani’s communications through multiple avenues, until he concluded that he was panicking over nothing.

That one night, though. He’d managed to get to John in time, been granted unexpected clemency by Carter, raced through the thankfully empty streets at a speed he’d never attempt were it not an emergency -- all the while praying that his police-tracking app wouldn’t miss a car. Before they’d even gotten to the morgue, Harold’s custom crisis app had told him Madani’s schedule, and even used facial-recognition software to assure him that the man was actually in the building. By the time Harold was trying to get John onto a gurney, his partner barely had enough strength left to raise his head -- but when seconds counted, Harold’s meticulous preparations had saved John’s life.

Throughout the surgery, Harold had managed to hold himself together, assist where needed; he’d kept himself going as Madani helped position John in the car and wished them luck, and then he’d driven to a safe house with a decent garage. With John still buckled into the car (since Harold had no reasonable way of transporting an unconscious man both taller and heavier than himself, let alone doing so in a fashion that wouldn’t disturb John’s stitches), and Madani’s assurance that he would sleep for a good five hours yet (he’d been wrong: John’s drug-resistance training had gotten him awake in three), Harold had closed himself in the bathroom, thrown up yet again, and sobbed on the floor, leaning against the bathtub for a good twenty minutes with his brain replaying every agonizing moment of that terrifying night, along with a few creative details ( _Carter arresting them anyway; Snow getting into the car before it could take off; Carter shooting them as they fled; John dying on the table; Snow tracking them down and being outside the safe house even now_ ).

Of all the many horrible nights he’d faced in his life, that one ranked in the top three. Easily. Wondering if all his efforts had actually been _enough_. Wondering if John was actually going to survive. Constantly checking to see if the anesthesia had worn off, if John was aware enough to be in pain… wondering if John was suffering but unable to surface enough to let Harold know about it. Knowing that for all his devotion to the cause, he was physically incapable of giving John the care he needed -- that when John was ready to move from the car to a bed, the wounded agent would have to lift _himself_ out of the car and into the wheelchair, and then, later, lift himself out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. The helplessness had been palpable, as he waited for John to wake up.

And yet, here, with John sitting across from him, alive and awake yet not connecting with the world around them… this was so much worse.

He wanted to be mad at Shaw. Now that they had a medic on the team, they shouldn’t _have_ to resort to a hospital anymore; Shaw could handle a lot more field medicine than Harold ever could. True, her resources were necessarily constrained to whatever she could smuggle into a safe house and operate without undue attention -- no MRI, for example -- but then, Harold’s injuries were well within the bounds of Shaw’s supplies and likely expertise. He and John shouldn’t be sitting here in a waiting room, both of them wounded in different ways, relying on the good graces of a doctor they’d once kept from walking down a dark road. Being out of contact this long was… inexcusable.

But, really, what could Shaw have done any differently? They hadn’t been able to contact anyone until Elias had released them -- and, by then, the damage had already been done. Shaw could hardly have gotten to them faster than Fusco had, and, although it seemed like undue panic now, Harold had been determined to see a doctor in an actual hospital, one whose resources _weren’t_ constrained. By now… well, he still wanted Shaw to look after John, and her absence was still a niggling worry in his mind, but… there was time.

If Shaw had been there when John had been taken… but that wasn’t worth thinking about. Elias wasn’t to the point of killing them -- he took some comfort in _that_ \-- but now that Harold was letting himself think over the details of the night, he did note some likely possibilities as he pieced together what must have happened.

Elias had made him sit in that room for hours; this implied that he’d been captured first, before John. Thinking back, he’d been in contact with John until shortly before the kidnapping, maybe twenty minutes; that as good as confirmed it. And John, sitting here under the emergency room lights, didn’t seem to have a scratch on him… except, now that Harold was looking for it, some rope burns around his wrists. Strong ones. He’d struggled to get free _after_ being tied up, not before.

Possibly he’d been tased, or drugged, and come to himself after they’d already restrained him. But the more likely explanation was obvious: He’d only started struggling after he was tied down in that chair. After Elias had started to… explain.

So John hadn’t been taken by force the way Harold had been; he’d entered the building under his own power, let himself be tied down. Why hadn’t he fought? That, too, was obvious: Elias could stop him with a word. Or, well, three words: _I have Harold_.

A thought like that was as good as a ring in John’s nose: When Harold was in danger, even _implied_ danger, then every other consideration fell away. Of course John had come quietly; how could he not?

Ever since meeting Elias, they’d come to understand him as a threat to other people, but not to them. The crime lord had spared John’s life on multiple occasions, confirming his assertion that, despite their conflicting operations, he valued Harold and John’s contribution to the city. Not that he would never turn on them, but, in general, they enjoyed an odd sort of truce. Given what they knew of him, how could either of them have predicted that it would come to this?

So if Shaw had been there… she wouldn’t have been in danger, no, but she couldn’t have been all that helpful, either. If she’d been captured along with John, he would have cautioned her not to do anything rash. Then, assuming she listened, she would have been squirreled away in a spare room until the encounter was over; there was little chance of her being kept in the loop. Elias knew Harold and John well enough to predict their reactions -- a vulnerability that Harold was at a loss for how to counter -- but he didn’t know Shaw, so letting her in on his plans meant introducing a rogue element. Given his chessmaster tendencies, he’d certainly see that risk and take steps to avoid it.

If Shaw had been set free or sent home, then John would have indicated that Elias was not usually a direct threat to either of them. Likely enough, she would have trailed them anyway, a ready ally in case of a fight, but… she couldn’t have known what was going on inside the building. And if she had tried to sneak in, she might well have triggered the sort of firefight that they had luckily avoided.

No, it was better for all concerned that she had not been involved in the night’s events.

He paused, briefly, to consider the possibility that Shaw’s lack of response might be due to captivity, but he could find no reason for Elias to hold her now that the deed was done. Unless -- maybe that was another message for John to convey, once he--

“Mr. Wren?”

Startled, he blinked up into the concerned face of Dr. Tillman. It took him a moment to gather his wits enough to respond.

In that moment, Tillman had already turned her attention to John. Of course she would: He was the one with visible symptoms. And although they’d come to her for help on a couple of occasions, so that she did know Harold as more than just a random patient, she’d still spent more time interacting with John -- the one she felt greatly indebted to, naturally enough, and also the one more often in need of her assistance.

Trying to bury his illogical jealousy, Harold searched for the words he’d been meaning to say, but… had he even put words together for this? He’d been focused on getting to Tillman, but that’s where the mental path ended, just _find Tillman, explain the problem, get help_.

Just like when he’d called ahead, he found himself faced with an utter blank.

“John? Can you understand me?”

Tillman had pulled out a small flashlight and was shining it in John’s eyes; Harold sucked in a panicked breath at the thought of disturbing John -- _not here, not now_ \-- and bolted to his feet, only to nearly collapse from the pain of the sudden movement.

By the time he opened his eyes again, he found himself flanked by Tillman and Fusco -- each holding one of his elbows. Under more normal circumstances, he would have protested, even been offended, but tonight he could only be grateful for the unexpected support.

“Whoa there,” Fusco was saying. “Not so fast, cowboy.”

He wanted to chuckle at the odd appellation, but suddenly recalled the last time he’d started laughing tonight, and suppressed a shudder. “Please… Doctor,” he got out. “I need… can we… privately?”

“Of course,” Tillman assured him, but then, “Does… does John need--”

“I… don’t really know what John needs,” Harold admitted, his voice very small. “But it has to wait. Our… associate will be able to take care of him for now, until…” He sighed, too weary to keep explaining, and simply concluded with, “Privately? Please.”

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

Being careful to match Harold’s speed, Tillman escorted him to a private exam room; they hadn’t even left the emergency room before he was leaning on her arm and once again looking forward to the painkillers he wouldn’t normally allow himself.

Once the door was closed, Tillman helped him over to a chair -- he grasped the back with one hand, but made no attempt to sit down -- and then stepped back and regarded him, concern in her eyes.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, and, even though she hadn’t really said _What exactly happened tonight?_ Harold still felt his mind go blank again.

 _Coward_ , he thought to himself, but it didn’t help. Putting the events of the night into human words was simply beyond his capabilities right now.

“Can you--” he began, then took a deep breath. “Can we do this without words?”

Tillman’s eyes shot wide, but then she nodded, fetching a pair of gloves for herself. “A couple clarifying questions first.” At his nod, she asked, “How will you communicate if you need me to stop?”

That gave him pause. If he couldn’t find the words to describe what had happened to him -- if his mind went blank when he got too near the subject -- then what if he lost the words, right when he needed them? What if he couldn’t tell her…?

Lost, he looked at her beseechingly, and suddenly she was rummaging around in a supply drawer and handing him a small pill bottle. “If you need me to stop, just drop it. I’ll hear when it hits the floor.”

Relieved, he nodded, and clutched the bottle tightly in one hand.

“Second question,” she said. “Is this just an exam, or will you need procedures today as well?”

Breathing through his nose as he tried to find an answer, he wondered what she must think of him -- her conclusions on what had happened, what it had done to him, how much was wrong. How weak and helpless he’d become, how pitiful. The eloquent genius who couldn’t even speak.

But she simply waited, with no outward sign of impatience.

“I’m not sure,” he said, eventually. “You’ll -- you’ll have to--” He gestured helplessly.

“All right… exam first, and then, if we need to, we’ll discuss your options. Last question: Do you want me out of the room while you undress?”

Again, his stomach went tight, but, with an effort, he shook his head. If he collapsed, he needed her to realize it sooner, rather than later. “Just… turn your back,” he managed.

Once she wasn’t looking, he began trying to divest himself of the more restrictive garments. But, although he did get his tie off, he found that the contortions necessary to remove his suit jacket were no longer within his power. It took him less than a minute to concede; it chafed, letting anyone else -- even a doctor, but especially a friend -- help him with such a basic task, but if he were ever to get out of here…

“I’m… I’m afraid I n-need…”

And then Tillman’s gentle hands were freeing him of his suit jacket, his vest, and then, following his wordless direction, helping him out of his shoes, his pants -- not removing agency from him entirely, but assisting with anything that made him stiffen up or hiss in pain. The garments got stacked on one of the chairs, and he couldn’t even care about the wrinkles.

Soon enough, she was helping him gingerly get onto the exam table, the paper sheet crinkling beneath his hand. As he leaned back, with her hands helping position his feet on the bed, he caught a glimpse of her face -- stricken, an expression Harold was getting far too familiar with.

“I, uh,” she stammered briefly, then closed her eyes for just a moment before continuing, more composed and professional: “I know you have your reasons to want… discretion. Privacy. But would you prefer a male nurse for this exam? Either instead of me, or in the room with me?”

Staring up at the ceiling, he took in a deep breath and released it. “Just get on with it.”

He couldn’t identify the sound as she pulled something out of the table, first on one side and then the other, but then she was carefully moving his leg out, the leg that couldn’t stop shaking, out past the edge of the bed until his foot came to rest on one of the stirrups; then she positioned his other foot as well. While it didn’t stop the shaking entirely, the support made it a little easier to relax.

Which was good, because it was all he could do not to tense up too badly -- already stiff and sore, the hard surface doing no favors to his neck and back, and knowing that any moment now she’d be touching places where--

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but, before I do anything else, I have to know: Do you want a rape kit?”

Closing his eyes, he trembled at the thought of trying to convey in words what had happened just a few short hours before. Why he didn’t need a rape kit; how it could do harm, but couldn't help their situation. “No,” he choked out. “No. It’s not-- no.”

“All right.” From the pause, it seemed like she wanted to say more, but then she simply got to her feet. He heard her moving the trash can closer to the bed, and then opening drawers, getting out supplies; the stretch of latex as she discarded her first pair of gloves, then put on a new pair. He was grateful that he didn’t have to look at any of it.

And then her latex-clad fingers were touching him in uncomfortable places, clinically holding and moving parts of him that didn’t need to be checked. If he had been more specific about the location, he could have avoided the unnecessary intrusion, but lying back and letting her touch him was less distressing, right now, than trying to communicate.

As the exam moved lower, Tillman started using what felt like wet wipes, carefully cleaning up what Harold hadn’t managed in the restroom. Feeling both relieved and mortified, he lay there, blinking back tears, clutching the little pill bottle, and breathing through the continued agony of his aching body. _Not much longer. You can last._ With the cleanup done, she prodded, gently; he flinched when he felt again that slight but unexpected burning, not as strong as when -- but it faded, and she continued her inspection.

The minutes seemed interminable, but, eventually, Tillman moved away, replacing her gloves for the second time. Then there was another pause.

“Your external injuries are minor,” she said. “I can check for internal injuries as well, but… well, it depends on how thorough you want me to be, and whether you have any reason to assume there might be hidden injuries. Does it feel particularly painful, inside?”

He hated this. He _hated_ it.

Which was why he only wanted to go through it once.

“Do it all,” he choked out.

“All right,” she confirmed. “I can do a rectal exam like this, but there are other positions that make it easier, if you’d prefer to--”

When he answered by pulling his good leg back from the stirrup, her hands were there to help him, making the movement far less strenuous than it normally would have been. Silently, she brought the stirrups down, and Harold pushed himself up with a wince, avoiding Tillman’s gaze as he gingerly got to his feet.

He’d had rectal exams before; of course he had, he was over fifty, and steering clear of hospital stays meant keeping up on _some_ level of preventative maintenance. Knowing that he couldn’t manage to hold his knees now even if he tried, and that the side position would put far too much strain on his lower back, he’d opted to stand: toes pointed in, ready to lean over the bed when she needed him to, and not a moment before.

It was, unsurprisingly, difficult to relax for this part. The lube, all by itself, triggered a flashback that he fought back viciously, his breaths harsh in his ears. Tillman -- on her fourth pair of gloves, now -- did her best to go slow and be gentle, but the pain of leaning on his forearms was making him tense up even more than the violation itself. With barely any pressure, her finger rested at his entrance for what felt like an eternity, until finally he must have relaxed a little, because he felt her cautiously push inside.

The motions were familiar, which was a surprising sort of comfort -- less uncertainty about what was coming. As she slowly turned her hand, checking for any damage, he sought for something to focus on that wasn’t physical sensation or memories. What came to mind, after he’d discarded the simplicity of reciting Pi, was poetry ( _I stand before a real Rembrandt -- old woman, or nearly so, myself_ ); he opted to fall back into the pain, rather than form some indelible connection in his brain between the timeless phrases he’d been memorizing lately and the indignity of the exam.

And then she was telling him to squeeze, and he did, intensifying the burning for a few seconds before she bid him relax, and gently pulled out.

He straightened up, relieved to not be in that position anymore. Was that the last step of this humiliating ritual?

But just as he turned to try to meet Tillman’s eyes again, attempting _some_ level of grateful smile, he felt his insides clench up, and then, with pins and needles lancing across his shoulders, he was throwing up all over the chairs, his suit, the floor--

It was the first thing, since walking into the hospital, that he’d felt honestly ashamed over. Tillman was rubbing his back lightly, telling him it was all right, to just let it all out, but even if she hadn’t, there was no way of fighting his body right now.

When he was finally able to take a few deep breaths and calm the reflex, she handed him a tissue, and he wiped at his mouth, once again unable to meet her eyes. He could only look at the floor, at the mess -- which wasn’t as much as it had felt like, coming up, and it looked quite watery. But that was about right, wasn’t it? Given that he’d had a light breakfast (John’s regular offer of tea and donuts), a snack around lunchtime (fancy crackers), and pretty much nothing the rest of the day, aside from a steady intake of tea.

“I-- I should--”

“It’s all right,” Tillman said, compassion and patience in her voice. “We’ve got people who know how to clean this up properly. It’s going to be fine.”

Swallowing the vile taste in his mouth, Harold nodded. His suit looked awful. But then, after the night’s events, he’d been half meaning to get rid of it anyway. Elias’s goons had removed anything of value from the pockets, and Fusco had the phone; there was nothing important in those pieces of old cloth, however pleased he’d been with them the day before.

“I’ll find you a set of scrubs,” Tillman continued, handing him a Dixie cup of water; he hadn't even heard her pour it, or hadn't paid attention to the sound. “Do you want to take your clothes with you in a bag? I'm assuming they're dry-clean only, or…”

There was no reason to tax his dry cleaner, no reason to hang on to the memory.

“Just burn them,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I do find it amusing that this is the two-days-after-Valentines-Day update, why do you ask?
> 
> I wasn't writing it during Valentine's Day. I did, however, bust through my writer's block fairly easily on the 15th, so this is what you get ^_^ I don't exactly do romance.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** Lots of medical details, including field medicine and, of course, the actual exam. Minor mention of suicide. Harold's starting to have processing problems, like not being able to put things into words. He's still in pain (oh, and John's still mentally MIA, though that doesn't get dwelt on), and starting to stiffen up, to the point where he needs help just getting his clothes off.
> 
> Emetophobe warning (three times, the last in greater detail). If you don't know what that term means, you're probably fine, even though that part of the scene is a little disgusting. (Again, honestly, if I wholesale avoid "disgusting" details in writing a rapefic, I think I'm not doing my job. Disgust isn't my favorite emotion to play with, but sometimes it's a useful contrast.)
> 
> As usual, if I've missed a significant warning, please do let me know in the comments!


	9. Assessments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you ready to get this over with?”
> 
> The chuckle that came out of him sounded suspiciously like a sob, but he rolled up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too much time researching this chapter. Do you know, it's really difficult to get accurate specifics about medical treatments from just looking things up online? Like, how many days' worth of antibiotics would that be? Which specific site would the doctor inject that vaccine? I have had to make some not-so-educated guesses and hope it's not too far off the mark.
> 
> On the up side, I now have a much clearer idea of STI treatments, which I suppose might help me at some point in my life. Maybe. It's good to know that several of them are fully curable, and that a couple that aren't curable may still be preventable even after exposure.
> 
> Anyway, this is the chapter where Tillman starts giving Harold some treatments, and they discuss some things. Also, Harold has a flashback completely unrelated to the rape -- but harrowing nonetheless. It's been interesting to try to flesh out his specific irrational reactions, and why this or that gets to him in a way other things don't.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:**  
>  Harold's starting to come out of his shell, to express (and experience) emotions that were blocked off from him earlier. Panic attacks, again. Bit of a panic over the thought of bodily fluids. Injections. Some notes about rape culture and victim-blaming. Regret and self-blame.
> 
> Flashbacks: Harold's father, and a particular incident of dementia kicking in.
> 
> Canon Details: Tillman's sister's suicide (and rape).

_Just burn them_. If Tillman found the request strange, she didn’t comment; she simply nodded.

What was next? Pain meds, that was… important. Before they discussed prescriptions, though, Tillman was going to get scrubs for him; he didn’t care to stay naked any longer than necessary. But the thought of her leaving him alone brought on a sudden rush of fear.

“No one else will come in here, right?” he heard himself asking, the plea odd and remote. It was bad enough that Tillman had to see him like this; he certainly didn’t want anyone else to witness his humiliation, not even by accident.

“I’ll leave the flag up when I go. No one’s going to disturb us.”

Nodding shakily, Harold raised the cup to his lips, then paused to orient himself to the sink before getting the water in his mouth -- most of it -- and swishing it around. The motion made him feel a little more sick, and he focused on quieting his stomach before carefully spitting the water out.

As he was pouring himself another cup, Tillman said, “Mr. Wren,” and then hesitated. “I don’t even know your real name, do I? I mean, it’s okay if I don’t, that’s not a big deal, but…”

“You do,” he said, after clearing his mouth again; the acrid taste was still in there, and he filled the cup a third time, trying not to gag. “It’s Harold. I did tell you, once.”

“Harold… I can understand if you don’t want to talk about -- or even think about -- what you went through tonight.”

The water was up and over the cup, splashing down into the sink, soaking up his sleeve. Distantly, he realized that he was shaking.

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Tillman was saying, although her words came as if from a distance, covered by white noise, the rushing sound in his ears. “At least in the short term. Some people do get through trauma by refusing to deal with it at all, but that’s… it’s not usually the best way to handle it. It’s… it’s better to get some support.”

 _What the hell would_ **_you_** _know about it_? he shouted at her, savagely, except his mouth wouldn’t move; his breaths were coming fast and angry, shoulders growing tight again, his face scrunching up. _How many victims have you treated? Hundreds? Thousands? You’re a doctor, you’re used to it. Pass them off to some shrink and pat yourself on the back, think you’ve done everything you have to--_

“You should know that there are resources,” she was saying, still gentle, still compassionate. _Some kind of support group, sure, a circle of chairs where people get up one after another and admit that they’ve-- that someone--_

Suddenly, Harold was looking down at a coroner’s report… quietly pulling the photo out, taping it to the board. The reason they’d connected with Megan Tillman in the first place. Because she _did_ know. Because she’d watched her beautiful, kind, intelligent, _irreplaceable_ sister broken apart by what one man had done to her. Watched her try to ignore the trauma, to push it aside, put it behind her, for nearly a year, and… fail.

And then, wounded so deeply, shredding herself to pieces over the memories, over the guilt that should never have been on her shoulders… that young woman had sought her escape through a bottle of pills.

No wonder Tillman had looked so stricken, once she’d realized what had-- and it was astounding, the level of professionalism that she’d displayed in continuing, in dealing with him, in being a _doctor_ for him right now, instead of-- instead--

If he’d remembered that -- if he had stopped to think about anything other than-- he should have chosen a different doctor, a different hospital, even if he’d had to work harder to ensure his anonymity. Because she shouldn’t have to deal with _this_ ; he shouldn’t be bringing her memories to the surface like this. He shouldn’t be hurting her, shouldn’t be--

Suddenly, Tillman herself was too close to bear.

“I-- I have to--” _Get out of here_ , his mind insisted, _now now now_ , and he had gotten to the door and half opened it when he realized that he was still naked from the waist down. For a moment, he was frozen, panting, his face burning, desperate but unable to piece together the next thing to do.

Then Tillman was beside him, and he wrenched himself back from her, into the wall, still panting.

“I’ll go get those scrubs,” she said, firmly. “Can you wait here until I get back? I’ll be quick.”

Shakily, he nodded; she closed the door behind her as she left.

Harold’s legs couldn’t hold him; stumbling over to the chairs, he nearly forgot that they were both covered in vomit, but stopped himself just in time. The exam bed’s step was the only other -- no. The doctor’s chair.

A sense of propriety held him back for almost four seconds before he pushed past the social norms and collapsed onto her chair. Tillman wouldn’t care, and right now it wouldn’t have bothered him if she did. The discomfort of being seated barely registered; Harold braced his elbows next to the keyboard, tore off his glasses, and, still trembling, buried his head in his hands.

That moment -- his hand on the doorknob, the door partially open, the sudden horror at realizing that he wasn’t wearing trousers, that he had almost gone out in public half naked -- that had shaken him to the core… and for reasons completely unrelated to the night’s events.

  


* * *

  


Harold’s father hadn’t even completed the eighth grade; like many farm kids, he’d dropped out of school when his family needed him to work the fields. But it hadn’t taken him long to recognize Harold’s aptitude, and he’d resolved to see the uncommonly bright boy get a full-fledged education, from the ground up.

So when the local school refused to give his son anything more challenging than it gave his peers, he’d taken it upon himself to meet Harold’s educational needs. Just as he’d picked up the knowledge of birds to keep Harold happy in the cradle, he bent himself to the task of comprehending math he’d never had a head for, art history he had little appreciation for, geography he could barely keep straight, botany (more than just the practical details of growing crops), and physics, whose concepts seemed counter-intuitive and whose mechanics required even _more_ advanced math.

Beyond the common subjects, though, he’d taken note of Harold’s underdeveloped social intuition, and begun to research the unwritten rules for the kind of society that he could imagine Harold joining someday. When he couldn’t find enough information in the non-fiction section of the library, he’d turned to the classics, unwittingly training Harold to be a proper Romantic icon. This included society’s dress codes; Harold’s father might have been content with _never go shirtless in public_ , but he’d trained Harold in every detail, from matching his accessories, to tying the perfect full Windsor, to using archly educated terms such as _sartorial_ and _bespoke_.

When Harold had gone on the run, needing to project an entirely new identity, he’d built on this foundation -- long before his first million -- to masquerade as the reclusive rich. Everything that he’d become tied back to the attentive care of a modest, self-sufficient farmer who never doubted for a moment that his son would one day change the world.

 

So it had been a cruel shock when Harold had returned from a quick errand to find the front door open to the rain, and his father (who he’d left napping) rooting around in the shed… soaking wet, and innocently unaware that his muddy socks were the only shred of clothing on him from the waist down.

Harold had coaxed his dad back to the house, covering him with his coat and hoping the neighbors didn’t pick that time to drop by; it wasn’t even six o’clock. An hour later -- having gotten his father washed off, dressed in his pajamas, fed a decent meal, and seen off to bed -- Harold had sat at his desk for a long time. One more moment of coming to grips with the way his father’s mind was slowly slipping away, the progression out of their control.

  


* * *

  


For years after that, Harold hadn’t even left his bedroom before double-checking that he was wearing trousers. It had been _decades_ before he’d lost the paranoia, and then mostly because he had other paranoias to focus on. But just now…

Just now, he’d nearly run out into the hall… half naked and with vomit on his shirt. Running from an ally -- a _friend_ \-- because he couldn’t deal. He hadn’t even run from Elias, or Marconi, but he’d just tried to run from Megan Tillman, one of the most compassionate women he knew.

 _God_ , he was a mess. It was as though his brain had abandoned rational thought, was trying to protect him in all the wrong ways.

A soft triple tap on the door, and “Mr. Wren? It’s Dr. Tillman.”

He sat there and breathed, not looking up; but then, as the moment stretched on, he realized that she was waiting to be sure that he wanted her in the room. Not really trusting himself to speak, he looked across the room -- the giant gulf between him and that doorknob -- and concluded that physically opening the door for her was even _less_ possible.

“Come in,” he managed, not quite loud enough; then scrubbed his face and said, louder, “ _Come in_.”

There was the rustle of fabric as she entered, and then the door clicking shut. The crinkle of the paper sheet as she laid something on the exam table. Then a pause.

“I’ve brought some clothes for you,” Tillman said gently. “Would you like to get dressed now? There’s no hurry,” she added. “When you’re ready, I can help you, or leave the room, whichever you prefer.”

Preference didn’t enter into it; he was no more able to put clothes on by himself right now than he’d been able to disrobe himself for the exam. But this was nearer to the end than to the beginning; that was something, at least.

It wasn’t enough to get him moving. Which wasn’t fair to Tillman: Despite it being a slow night, Harold had no doubt that she had other duties to perform. He must have taken over half an hour by now; he was keeping her from her responsibilities. But even that thought didn’t give him enough energy to move.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, still not looking her way.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she responded, not a hint of hesitation or uncertainty in her voice. “None of this is your fault, Harold. You might not believe that right away, but it really isn’t. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Deserve it?” He turned too fast to look at her, his neck instead of his body; the electric jolt made him squeeze his eyes shut for a long moment, breathing through his nose. “How in God’s name could anyone _deserve_ this?”

“You’d be surprised how many think they do. Blame themselves for getting drunk, or for going up to a guy’s apartment, or forgetting to lock the door. Or they get told--” She broke off; when Harold could open his eyes again, he turned more carefully and saw her gazing off to the side, eyebrows drawn together, face haggard with memories. “People don’t really stop to think… they just, they judge the victims for being victims. Because it’s easier to believe that the victim somehow deserved it, than to come to grips with a world where anyone could be a victim.” Clasping her hands, she pressed them to her lips, and he could see that she was trembling ever so slightly.

A world that Harold had had to come to grips with, countless times, since the towers fell -- since he’d begun work on the Machine. And then learned all over again with Nathan’s death, and the awareness that the forces creating terror and chaos weren’t just outsiders; that the government he’d surrendered the Machine to was maintained by covert assassins who defended this country by deleting its own citizens when they got too close to the truth.

From there, he’d joined forces with one of those very assassins, and worked cases involving everyone from babies to the elderly, lawyers to janitors, the homeless to Logan Pierce. Yes, Harold was all too aware that violence could touch people from all walks of life, that it was inherently capricious -- it was something of a miracle that he’d managed to get the Machine to predict as much of the violence as it did.

All they could do -- he and John, and Shaw, even Carter and Fusco -- was to try to reduce the damage a little, where they could see to do so. And, in this case, to provide a little comfort to a fellow warrior, one working toward that same end of saving lives. Because Tillman didn’t just keep people from dying; she helped repair the shattered remains of broken bodies, wounded spirits, battered dignities. The elements necessary for a human to bear up under hardship and carry on living in this world.

Careful with his wording -- because he still couldn’t let her in on the secrets he carried -- Harold said softly, “I know, all too well, that violence can strike with little warning… and that no one is truly safe from it. That people who’ve done nothing wrong still get attacked. You can’t reduce the risk factors to zero; it takes courage to even walk out your front door.

“But to blame yourself for getting hurt…” Staring at the floor, he shook his head. “I know how easy that is. It’s very… human, to second-guess your choices, to try to make sense of the event and keep it from happening again. But that’s trying to make a decision with information you didn’t have at the time. It’s trying to invent a world where you knew in advance what was going to happen, or how important your decisions would turn out to be… and that’s simply not how life works.”

When the moment stretched long without Tillman replying, Harold looked up to find her gazing off into the distance, her eyes wet with unshed tears. A weak smile flickered across her face, at odds with the pain of her eyebrows. There was no telling if she was thinking over bittersweet memories of the good times, or reliving her decisions, the way he still did over Nathan’s death. Doubtless Tillman had spent days, weeks, a _lifetime_ thinking over what she could have done differently -- how she could have acted to spare her sister either the attack itself or the resulting despair that had finally claimed Gabrielle’s life.

A familiar agony of the soul, that form of regret, and it was worse than pointless: You could spin your wheels for decades, trying to find the perfect solution, the _what I should have done_ , but it could never restore the loss. The lessons for future behavior were rarely so esoteric that they required weeks or months to figure out; anything past a few days was merely self-indulgent misery. And if you happened to come across a sequence of events that would have prevented the tragedy, a sequence that you could reasonably have done at the time and that didn’t require foreknowledge of the consequences, all it could do was cement your failure -- by showing that the tragedy hadn’t been inevitable.

The _if only I hadn’t argued with him, he’d still be alive_ regret. But that was Tillman’s burden to struggle with; Harold could no more lighten it for her than she could lighten his regrets over losing Nathan.

He could, however, get out of her hair and let her get on with her duties. Taking in a deep breath, Harold turned the chair the rest of the way, no longer partially hiding himself behind the computer on its little fold-out table, and then nodded once, determinedly. “I believe that I’m ready to get dressed now. Thank you for -- for being patient with me.”

“Would you prefer to--”

“I will require your help, Doctor. And, after that, we’ll need to discuss medication.”

As Tillman gathered up the dark blue scrubs from off the exam bed, she frowned, and seemed about to speak -- but then simply closed her mouth and brought the clothes to him. While Harold let her lift his legs into the legs of his new trousers, he thought back on the times that he’d been about to touch John, but held himself back. Was that what Tillman was doing here? _Let’s get this done before I do something that might make the situation worse?_

If he… if he _lost his composure_ again, if he rushed out into the hall… at least he’d have clothes on.

But once he was standing, once his trousers were on, he found himself acutely aware of the lack of anything beneath them; it made him feel almost _more_ naked than he had been a moment before. More exposed. Again, he wished that he had thought to bring Fusco’s jacket with him… but then, if he had, it would have been on the chair, probably on the bottom of the pile, and useless to him in any case.

Tillman went on to help him remove his shirt, replacing it with soft blue fabric. She’d been thoughtful enough to bring two sizes; the best fit still didn’t fit him all that well, but it covered his body and didn’t restrict his movement, and the fabric itself felt unexpectedly good against his skin.

“Does that feel better?” she asked, and he realized that he’d just let out a sigh of pleasure -- perhaps his first honest pleasure since he’d had his tea the morning before.

“It does,” he replied. “It feels good to be… clean.”

She hesitated. “Harold,” she said, searching his face, “do you… are STIs a concern? I could run some tests, o-r-rrr—”

His brain whited out, and if she said anything past that point, he didn’t hear it over the rushing in his ears. Infections. Diseases. It felt like something he _should_ know about John, given how extensively he had researched him, but… wait, there was one thing. A little less than a decade ago, John had been treated for chlamydia. It was one of the risks of using your body, your sexuality, for covert operations, so John had been tested often, and that time the test had come back positive. The treatment was fast and effective, even back in 2006… which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t caught it again, but there had been nothing else on his record. Of course, there was no telling what he might have caught while homeless, while on the run… and he probably didn’t care enough about himself, at the time, to keep up on doctor visits, even if he’d had the money to do so, which he _hadn’t_ … which meant that he could have _anything_ , curable or not, and could have passed any of them on to Harold, that was probably the real reason that John had made sure to wear a condom, only the condom had proven to be useless and they’d shared _fluids_ and he’d had John’s blood on his hands for a couple of _hours_ although it wasn’t like he was a stranger to John’s blood and John had never mentioned any reason to be careful but John was so protective of him that surely he would have--

“Harold?”

Blinking up into Tillman’s concerned face, he realized that he was panting again. He tried to shake it off -- the line of thought that had pulled him out of the present, out of awareness. “Ah… I… that is…”

When he couldn’t complete the thought, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure. Long, slow breaths. Again, it wasn’t the threat itself; if he was infected, then he could deal with that, and if it were incurable, well, add it to the list of factors that he couldn’t change about his physical health. He didn’t have to worry about passing it along to a partner, and, since he was, by nature, acutely aware of germs and averse to casual touch, he didn’t even have to be concerned about passing it along incidentally through day-to-day contact with friends or strangers. Especially given his prediction of their early demise, the thought of contracting an STI seemed… trivial.

No, it was, as ever, the _not knowing_. Not knowing if there was reason to panic or not; not knowing if John’s health were in question, if there was something that John hadn’t been telling him, or something that John didn’t even know himself. Not knowing if the infection in question might compromise John’s ability to work in the field, or whether they’d have to take special precautions on its account.

But there was nothing he could do about that now; there was really no way to know until he got to talk with John about the risks. Which meant that, for the moment, it would hardly do him good to fret about it.

Taking in a breath, he forced himself to meet Tillman’s eyes again. “I’m afraid I don’t know which to be concerned about… but I should be able to get information about that within a day or two.” _Assuming John wakes up_. “I’m not sexually active at the moment,” he continued, surprised that it came out without any hesitation, “so there’s no concern about… contagion. If need be, I’ll come back for tests.”

Tillman paused, then said, softly, “Testing can’t be done right away, anyway -- it takes a while for new infections to show up in the blood work. And knowing which infections to look for is useful. But… and it’s entirely your choice, Harold, and we’ve got cures for several STIs by now, so delaying treatment isn’t such a big deal in those cases… although it would be much less of a hassle to use antibiotics to prevent the infection in the first place.

“But, when it comes to HPV, we don’t yet have a cure for it, and we can’t really test for it in men unless it presents with genital warts. Most HPV doesn’t have obvious symptoms, but it can cause serious cancers that aren’t detectable in the early stages; getting a vaccine immediately could prevent infection. And if HIV is likely, there’s an intensive antiretroviral regimen that we can only start within three days of exposure.”

HIV seemed unlikely -- thankfully -- and the window gave him enough time to get information from John himself, but HPV… if John had HPV, he could have cancer and not even realize it. Was there any way that Harold’s treatment could help John? Let himself develop warts, know for certain that John was at risk? Be better able to ensure that John got appropriate treatment?

No. Even if there was a possibility that lack of treatment could help John, he knew that John would never want Harold to suffer on his account. And the chance of it being helpful was slim. No, this was Harold’s brain trying to justify not taking steps to reduce the danger, as if acknowledging the risk was somehow _creating_ the risk. He knew better than to accept that line of reasoning.

His growing weariness came out in a lengthy sigh. “All right. I don’t think HIV is likely, but, other than that… whichever treatment you think is best.”

“All right. Just double-checking, but have you ever had a negative reaction to any sort of antibiotics?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Good. As to side effects, you’ll probably have some soreness at the injection sites, and some flu-like symptoms, including nausea -- especially as you’ll be getting multiple treatments at once. I can prescribe you an anti-nausea medication to help counteract the effects. Do you have any specific concerns before I get them?”

Dully, he shook his head. One more aspect of this situation that he just wanted to put behind him, to not think about.

“So… I’ll go get them right now. The sooner they’re in your system, the better the chances.”

Nodding, he found his seat again, and waited, numbly, letting the thoughts slide off before they could take hold, his mind an unpleasant but necessary blank. Nothing he could contemplate right now would help with the exam, but there were any number of things that could bring the panic back; he couldn’t let that happen, not when they were almost done.

He started when the door opened again; surely it hadn’t been two minutes since she’d left. Did they store the medications so close to the exam rooms? Or maybe his sense of time was just… off. He couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter.

First was a little cup of pills, and she gave him a fresh cup of water to wash them down. It took him a long moment to work up the courage to take them, and then he found it difficult to swallow, two of the pills sticking on the back of his tongue. Another cup of water finally got them down, but the effort had brought his energy level that much lower.

Tillman, already in a fresh set of gloves, showed him three syringes. “HPV, Hepatitis B, and the first part of the gonorrheal antibiotics. They’re all intramuscular injection; I’ll give one in each arm, and the third into the side of your hip. Are you ready to get this over with?”

The chuckle that came out of him sounded suspiciously like a sob, but he rolled up his sleeve and looked away -- the little amount that he could, with just his neck and eyes -- as she scrubbed the site with an alcohol wipe. Then he breathed through the pain of the needle going in, the slight discomfort of the injection itself. Tillman wiped gently at his skin with a cotton ball before putting on a small bandage, then tipped the used syringe into the sharps container on the wall. The shot on his other arm was much the same.

“All right -- just one more to go,” she said, disposing of the second syringe. “Think you can stand up for me?”

With her help, he managed, and then his pants were down again, awkwardly, as she prepped him for the last shot. It hurt a little more than the first two, but at least it was over fast.

“There -- that’s done. I’ll give you information on the follow-up treatment; you’ll need to take the full course of antibiotics” -- she held up three small bottles, and dropped them into a little plastic bag -- “for about a week. In one month, you’ll need the second shot for both vaccines, and again in six months.”

He took it all in, but nothing really stuck in his mind. Which was, he supposed, why there were pamphlets sticking out of the bag -- paperwork he’d have to go through later on, if he could manage.

“Now,” Tillman said, “you said something about medications?”

Medication? Oh, right, the pain. Awareness of it flooded back, his back and hip and neck and the area between his legs; he’d managed, for a while, to push it into a background hum, to pay less attention to it so that he could at least get through this ordeal, but it wasn’t going to really go away without intervention. Which he desperately needed, if he was going to get any sleep when he got home.

“Pain relief, if you could. Tonight has been quite…” Arduous. Torturous. Harrowing. “ _Trying_.”

Without offering comment, she pulled out her prescription pad. “Allergies?”

“Not to any drugs, and no new triggers that I’m aware of.” She’d cleared this the last time he’d come to her for a prescription, but it was important to stay current; she understood that he hopped around between doctors, and a person could develop an allergy at any point in their life.

Grace, who’d grown up in a house full of cats, had lived on her own for a couple of years before picking up a kitten, and it turned out that in that time she’d developed an allergy to cat dander; it had been one of the bigger disappointments of her life, only magnified when she’d learned about her infertility. _At least if I could have a cat_ , she’d once confided in him, _the house wouldn’t feel so lonely while you’re away_.

At the time, he’d been forced to leave her side for a few days here, a week or two there -- to maintain his covers, to handle certain details of the project, even, sometimes, because he got caught up in coding and training the Machine and lost all track of his other ties to life. Sometimes a month would go by with him showing up only one day in ten. Harold hadn’t actually thought about the possible implications of his poorly explained, often unexpected absences; it was Nathan who had brought it up to him one day, and then it had seemed obvious. The double life was certainly true; and, in a way, the thought of him cheating on Grace with a second family wasn’t too far off the mark -- depending on how you viewed the Machine and its connection to him.

He hadn’t dared to broach the subject with Grace, to ask her if she ever worried about him cheating; she never _seemed_ to think ill of him, but Harold could tell that his frequent unavailability hurt her, and that was bad enough. _And how much worse_ , he thought, _now that I’m never coming back?_ Another detail that he couldn’t deal with right now; he pushed the thought away.

Tillman had waited until his attention was back on her. “Do you still prefer codeine?”

“I have enough at home,” he began, “but I believe I’ll need something stronger for a day or two.” His lips quirked as he recalled the first time they’d discussed his actual routine maintenance -- the medications that best suited his symptoms, and how rarely he relied on them. It was partly penance and partly pragmatism that made him merely dull the edges of his chronic pain; he couldn’t stay operational while on anything strong enough to make him comfortable. And there was something about the pain that kept him… grounded, which was a quality he required far more than any physical comfort.

While Tillman clearly hadn’t been pleased with the idea, she’d refrained from criticizing it. Harold wondered, briefly, if he was about to put her at ease -- or make her even more concerned for him, given what she knew of his skill in pain management.

“How much stronger are we talking?” she asked.

“Well, unfortunately, I won’t be able to--” His eyebrows drew together before he even quite knew why. “Ah, that is… usually if I need a stronger dose, I add acetaminophen, but tonight I was concerned about the potential for it to… to make me…” -- he swallowed -- “bleed. Only, that doesn’t seem to be an issue the way I thought it was.”

“Acetaminophen isn’t a concern for bleeding -- you may be thinking of the NSAIDs, like aspirin and ibuprofen.” Hovering her pen over the paper, Tillman studied his face. “What made you concerned about excessive bleeding?”

If Tillman was going to help him, then she had to know things that she couldn't learn from the physical examination alone… which meant that he would have to find some way to stay calm and put the night's events into words. Not all of it -- not right now -- but part of it, part of what had happened. Part of what he had gone through.

Already his shoulders were tensing up again, drawing together. He sat down again, and focused on relaxing them, acutely aware that Tillman was waiting for an explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debated a long time over "gonorrheal antibiotics" vs. "gonorrhea antibiotics." I think the L sounds better between the two vowels, and it's a legitimate adjectival form. So, if you can weigh in on preferred nomenclature, please do, but no Typo Drabble for that specific choice.
> 
> As to chapter previews, I dunno how much longer I'll be adding them; they do seem to get kinda mangled in the writing process, but at least for this I've got most of the next chapter written up anyway, which flows straight from this one, so have a preview:
> 
> “ _Sometimes the brain makes good guesses about how to survive; sometimes it doesn’t. Makes you freeze when you need to run, or panic when you need a cool head. But it’s important to remember that what you’ve been through is an abnormal circumstance. It’s normal for you to react in an abnormal way. In fact, it could be a problem if you responded in a normal way._
> 
> “ _So, when you’re wondering about the things you did, or the way you’re acting, when it seems like you’re being irrational or behaving in a way that’s unusual for you, try to remember that your brain is doing what it’s supposed to do. It’s responding to an abnormal circumstance by acting in an abnormal way. That’s a good thing._ ”
> 
>  
> 
> _It didn’t feel like a good thing. Being out of control, finding that his own brain was acting unpredictably, not knowing how soon he might be back to normal… if that was even a possibility at this point…_
> 
>  
> 
> __


	10. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They couldn’t afford to have him incapacitated this way. Fusco and Shaw were valuable allies, but they couldn’t step in to do the sort of work that Harold could do almost in his sleep; Tao was hardly a worthy substitute, and while they couldn’t disparage Root’s abilities, they certainly couldn’t trust her with a computer. Minus Harold, the team suffered._
> 
> _Still, just as he’d occasionally had to force Reese to stand down while wounded, to take a break and heal even while the cases kept coming at them… well, Harold wasn’t physically in any worse condition than normal, but he was still wounded. In their line of work, of course they got wounded. And it wasn’t any less of a wound simply because it was mental or emotional instead of physical; in fact, in his case, physical damage was less of a concern than any ailment that affected his ability to think._
> 
> _So it would be necessary to give himself time to heal…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warnings:**  
>  Bit more panic attack, but more a lot of just zoning out, going into his own head. At least he seems to be improving.
> 
> Discussion of sensory distortion that occurs when the brain starts trying to focus in weird ways (generally due to adrenaline/survival situations). Apparently this is a well-documented effect, where your perception of time and space go wonky.
> 
> Discussion of blood. We also get to hear Harold's diagnosis, which is minor but specific in detail, including the necessary treatment (which falls far short of surgery, but I don't skimp on the details).
> 
> A reminder that psychological wounds can be every bit as devastating as physical wounds, and should not be treated as less serious or less important to treat.
> 
> And we finally get some possible detail on what's going on with John!
> 
> **Lastly:** I did my best to research treatments and such, but please don't take this as any kind of expertise.
> 
> Additional chapter warnings in end note.

_“What made you concerned about excessive bleeding?”_

_Already his shoulders were tensing up again, drawing together. He sat down again, and focused on relaxing them, acutely aware that Tillman was waiting for an explanation._

“When I -- when… earlier” -- _he could do this, just try to find the words_ \-- “that is, you said that… the, the injuries weren’t bad, and… and I didn’t see a lot of b-blood when I was… cleaning up, but…”

His breath was coming faster; he closed his eyes, but that made it worse, made it easier to flash back to the events, so he opened them again and fixed his gaze on the eye exam chart on the door. Maybe it would be easier if he just didn’t look her in the eyes.

“I thought there was blood,” he managed after drawing in a sharp breath. “So much blood. I could feel it dripping down my legs; I was sure that it had soaked through my t-trousers, that it would be visible to, to anyone who _looked_ , but…” He shook his head. “How…?” But he couldn’t even make a complete sentence for the question that he was trying to ask.

For a long moment, Tillman stayed quiet, perhaps waiting to see if he wanted to finish -- but he just glanced at her, helplessly, before looking away again.

“Are those the clothes that you were wearing when it happened?” she asked.

Harold nodded.

“Are you asking,” she said, slowly, “why you thought there was a lot of blood, when in reality you weren’t bleeding very much?”

Relieved, he nodded again; she had guessed close enough that he didn’t have to explain any further.

After glancing around, Tillman took a seat on the step for the exam table, putting her roughly at the same height as Harold. She sighed, and gave him a gentle smile, her expressive eyebrows drawing together in sympathy. “You know,” she began, “the human brain does weird things when it’s trying to survive. Trying to just… get through a situation -- any kind of trauma, really. I’ve dealt with any number of cases where the patient’s brain just got stuck on a certain detail, or completely overlooked other details that you’d think would be more important or memorable. In other cases, their sense of reality got seriously distorted.

“There’s a guy I heard about -- I think he was a police officer -- who was in an unexpected shoot-out. He saw these things like beer cans floating by his head, and he could clearly make out the writing on them. Afterwards, when they looked into it, it turned out that the ‘beer cans’ were really the shell casings ejected by his partner’s gun. The adrenaline had distorted his sense of scale, and of time, so these tiny things rushing past his head looked like big things slowly floating through the air.”

For a while, they sat there in silence, as Harold absorbed that. Finally, he ventured, “So my brain got stuck on the idea of blood -- of bleeding, because it was trying to help me survive?”

“Sounds like it to me. Kinda like the time… hmm.” She tapped her lips. “Do you mind a personal anecdote?”

“From you? Not at all.”

Tillman looked a little more relaxed. “It’s a balancing act,” she said, “trying not to be too cold or distant, but also not too personal. _Surgeons_ can get personal -- it puts patients at ease, reminds them that the surgeon is human. Doctors in general, though?” Grinning, she shook her head. “Most people prefer the professional to the person. Which isn’t a bad thing, it just… it is what it is.

“Anyway, so, mid-teens, my sister and I were living with some friends during the summer. Big country farm. And Gabby, she loves animals, but… not always great at reading their moods. So our second day there, she’s out in the barn before sunrise. Gets too close to this uppity mare, and, well… this is how we learn that you’re not supposed to approach a horse from the back. Dang thing kicks her, sends her flying across the barn and right into this pile of barbed wire.

“Now, we don’t find out until the hospital trip, but, besides the obvious cuts and bruises, she’s got two broken ribs and a concussion. Had to have a tetanus shot, too. That’s actually how I got interested in medicine, that trip, but…” She waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, despite all those injuries, Gabby didn’t just sit around crying and waiting for someone to find her. She manages” -- Tillman chuckled -- “she manages to rip herself out of the barbed wire -- took off more skin doing so -- and she gets up and marches her way back up to the house, which is the whole other side of this giant field and up a bit of a hill. And the whole way, she’s just _steaming_ mad.

“She’s thinking what a jerk that horse was, and why couldn’t it be a _nice_ horse, and why would anyone store barbed wire right out there in the open like that for anyone to land on, and how somebody’s gonna _pay_ for making her rip her favorite hoodie trying to get loose, and…” Tillman chuckled again, her eyes crinkling with the pleasure of the memory.

“Our friend’s mom is just getting ready to make breakfast when Gabby shows up in the doorway to the kitchen. Just _dripping_ blood. _Dozens_ of cuts. And for a moment she’s just standing there in a seething rage… but then our friend’s mom comes out of the pantry, and Gabby sees her, and all that anger just drains away in like a second, and she starts sobbing so loudly that it wakes up the whole rest of the house.

“And the thing is, Gabby’s never been good with blood, or pain, but that day -- she told me this later -- she didn’t even _feel_ the cuts until she starts getting fussed over. All that anger covered over the pain, kept her focused on something else, kept her functional.” Tillman’s brows drew together. “See, if she had broken down back at the barn, or halfway to the house, it might’ve been an hour or more before the kids started running around and somebody spotted her. That anger got her to the place she needed to be, and it kept her from breaking down until it was safe to do so. That’s the way our brains work when we’re in danger.”

_Or when some jerk fails to wash his hands after relieving himself, and your brain can fixate on that, when you’re not even_ really _in danger, just your brain thinking that--_

Harold rubbed his face and sighed. “Whatever it takes to get through it, I suppose?”

“Basically, yeah. Sometimes the brain makes good guesses about how to survive; sometimes it doesn’t. Makes you freeze when you need to run, or panic when you need a cool head. But it’s important to remember that what you’ve been through is an _abnormal circumstance_. It’s normal for you to react in an _abnormal way_. In fact, it could be a problem if you responded in a _normal_ way.”

Frowning, he tried to parse that. “…How do you mean?”

“Well, let’s see,” Tillman mused, tilting her head back. “There’s this short story I read about a woman who gets up, dresses her toddler, and walks into town to meet a friend for lunch. Pretty normal activities, right? Only, as the story goes on, it becomes clear that there’s been some sort of disaster. People are hurt, buildings destroyed -- even the restaurant itself. The woman’s friend is at the restaurant, but she’s a rotting skeleton by now. The toddler’s a dead body that the woman’s been caring for and dragging around.

“So the woman is trying her best to maintain a normal schedule, do normal things -- and it’s the fact that she’s acting ‘normal,’ in the midst of an abnormal circumstance, that proves that she’s gone insane.”

Now that she’d said it, it seemed obvious. Because a sane person would respond to the reality around her, not ignore it.

“You ever see _Langoliers_?” Tillman asked suddenly. “Or, well, read it, I suppose… it started out as a book.”

“It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“This airplane gets sucked into the past, only it’s a past without any people. Nothing living, nothing that moves. Most of the passengers are gone, even the pilot, and the few characters who are left are trying to figure out what happened and how to get back to their own time.”

“Wait… that _does_ sound familiar. Maybe something that Na-- er, that a friend coaxed me into watching, once. Weren’t there some horrific flying teeth monsters?”

Tillman grinned. “Yeah. But they don’t show up right away. You remember the crazy guy, Toomy?”

Nothing came to mind… but then, it was a movie he’d seen maybe twenty years ago, just the once, and he’d never been a fan of horror in the first place. He shook his head.

“Well, Toomy is just _fixated_ on getting to a business meeting. And he’s not about to let _anything_ get in the way of that goal. Doesn’t care about the weirdness going on, the people who are missing and probably dead, the fact that they need fuel, any of that -- just _get the plane in the air, right now, why are you guys delaying this flight?_ ”

Now that she was describing him, Harold thought he could maybe picture the guy… at least a little. Vague images, nothing very concrete. “He got killed, right? The teeth monsters eat him.”

“Yeah. And that’s because he interfered with them getting out of there -- even stabs a couple people. If he’d been able to adapt to circumstances, to work _with_ the group instead of against them, they could’ve gotten out of there faster, before the teeth monsters caught up with them. He’d’ve probably survived and maybe even gotten to his meeting. So.”

“Because he couldn’t adapt.”

“Right. So, when you’re wondering about the things you did, or the way you’re acting, when it seems like you’re being irrational or behaving in a way that’s unusual for you, try to remember that your brain is doing what it’s _supposed_ to do. It’s responding to an abnormal circumstance by acting in an abnormal way. That’s a good thing.”

It didn’t _feel_ like a good thing. Being out of control, finding that his own brain was acting unpredictably, not knowing how soon he might be back to normal… if that was even a possibility at this point…

After Root had kidnapped him (the first time), it had taken him months to get past the worst of his panic attacks. And then they’d taken on new life after the second time -- after she’d threatened Grace -- and then, yet again, after she’d escaped the facility that they’d placed her with. While she was still out there, Harold had countless times been frozen by the thought of her watching him, or a glimpse of someone who looked like her in the crowd; those triggers hadn’t gone away now that Root was safely tucked away in the library, because it was always possible that she might get loose again, but at least those were _logical_ reasons to feel ill at ease.

Far less easy to adjust to were the little things that occasionally set him off for no obvious reason. Was that to be his future, after tonight’s events? Twice as many incidents of his brain just shutting down rational thought and going into panic mode? They couldn’t afford to have him incapacitated this way. Fusco and Shaw were valuable allies, but they couldn’t step in to do the sort of work that Harold could do almost in his sleep; Tao was hardly a worthy substitute, and, while they couldn’t disparage Root’s abilities, they certainly couldn’t trust her with a computer. Minus Harold, the team suffered.

Still, just as he’d occasionally had to force Reese to stand down while wounded, to take a break and heal even while the cases kept coming at them… well, Harold wasn’t physically in any worse condition than normal, but he was still _wounded_. In their line of work, of course they got wounded. And it wasn’t any less of a wound simply because it was mental or emotional instead of physical; in fact, in his case, physical damage was _less_ of a concern than any ailment that affected his ability to think.

So it would be necessary to give himself time to heal… and to work with whatever advice could make the healing process shorter or more effective. Tillman had experience, not just from her own life, but from countless patients she’d worked with over the years -- and, of course, whatever help she had gotten in the aftermath of her sister’s… situation. If anyone would have useful information as to _his_ situation, she would. And if she was telling him that it was good for his brain to be weird right now, well… he’d try to accept that as a comfort.

He was calmer, now, he realized; slow, even breaths, his body fairly relaxed (for being in a doctor’s office); heart rate down, no sense of threat or fear or the need to rush out into the hallway again. Was that the point of all these stories? Getting his mind off what he’d gone through, giving him a chance to process a bit, to get some of the ideas into his head without directly relating them to his experience -- or, at least, not right away?

It was doubtful that she used this technique on every patient who came in with… but, whatever her reasoning, it had proven remarkably effective, and, for that, he was grateful.

From her seat on the exam table step, Tillman smiled at him, and Harold found himself able to smile back.

“Think you’re ready to discuss the exam?” Tillman asked softly.

Harold felt a slight tension creep back across his shoulders, but nothing as strong as earlier; he frowned and nodded.

“You don’t appear to have any serious wounds,” she began, “and what’s there will most likely heal on its own. What I noticed was a small anal fissure, along with some minor bruising. There doesn’t seem to be anything worse; in fact, if I had been evaluating your condition from physical symptoms alone, I doubt I would have jumped to the conclusion that it was… forced. I’d probably have handed you a pamphlet on how to have anal sex without hurting yourself.”

For some reason, Harold wanted to laugh. Trust John to ensure that even in _this_ \-- even this unexpected violation, even when John had, evidently, been under orders not to take it easy, to be more violent toward Harold than he would ever be under normal circumstances--

But the swell of affection in Harold’s chest reminded him that John had been invested in his welfare since the day they’d met. Sometimes it even seemed like it was an endless debt paid against that one moment of aggression at the start, the ten seconds of John’s arm and the weight of his body pinning Harold against the wall, making him struggle for breath and for the words that might make John release him. To Harold, that moment, as shocking and painful as it had been, was understandable -- not ‘forgivable,’ because that implied that there was something to forgive, something that John had done wrong, and Harold couldn’t see it that way.

_John_ evidently saw it that way. No one who hurt Harold was allowed to get away with it -- not even John.

Which was, of course, why the night’s betrayal had cut particularly deep. Cut _John_ , the betrayer, not Harold, who could never think so ill of his partner, certainly not over this; it would take far more than this to sever the bond between them, and the idea of John willingly turning against him was absurd. But for Elias to twist John like this… to turn him from Harold’s sword and shield into the dagger of the enemy, if only briefly… how devastating it must have been for him, being forced into an act that went against everything he tried to be for Harold.

Small wonder that John was acting so strangely. Tillman’s words rang in his head: _Remember, your brain is doing what it’s supposed to do_. Acting in an abnormal way, because the circumstance was abnormal. The challenge for the future -- after this exam -- was to determine what, precisely, was going on in John’s brain, and how to bring him out of it, if that was even possible.

Harold had to believe that it was possible; he could see no path forward that didn’t have John at his side. Already he missed seeing John play with Bear, or get that happy twinkle in his eye when his subtle ribbing actually got Harold to smile. Or his voice. Harold’s stomach twisted at the thought of how long he’d gone without that familiar comfort. He’d grown used to John’s voice in his ear, even when they were miles apart. Even knowing that John was safe with Fusco ( _hoping_ that John was safe with Fusco), it was disquieting to go so long without that assurance; it felt, unexpectedly, like losing one of his senses.

“Harold?”

The soft hand on his knee made him jerk away with a gasp, his elbow striking the computer screen; but, of course, it was only Tillman, and he murmured out a quick, “Sorry.”

“No, my fault,” she countered. “You’d zoned out again, and I should have just waited.”

Opening his mouth to protest, Harold realized that establishing blame -- or lack of blame -- was hardly the most pressing issue at the moment. And the sooner they got through with the exam, the sooner he’d be able to reconnect with John.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

Tillman frowned. “I’m not sure what you might have missed there. What’s the last thing you heard?”

“You mentioned my, ah, wounds. Seemed to think they weren’t, ah… out of keeping with… with, ah…”

“With consensual anal sex, yes. Now, I do see anal fissures in here a lot, but almost all of them close up on their own within a couple of weeks; it’s basically a small cut in a bad location, that’s all. People who have conditions that reduce healing or blood circulation -- diabetes, for example -- may need more assistance in getting back to normal. If it seems to get worse, or if it’s still causing you discomfort after three weeks, we should take another look at it. If it’s not closing up on its own, medication should help with that. Surgical intervention is possible, but quite rare.”

While it didn’t eliminate the possibility, it was still a relief. A small comfort, yet an important one.

“You’ve told me that your work is primarily a sedentary one, correct?”

“Yes.”

“While it’s always a good idea to get up and move around a bit every hour or so, I’d recommend those breaks even more in this case. Decreased blood flow to the affected area can slow the healing process. Also, are you familiar with a _sitz bath_?”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of one, no.”

Tillman’s eyes crinkled. “Basically, a tiny bath just for your buttocks. The warm water opens up the circulatory system, draws blood flow to the area, and promotes healing. It keeps the wound clean, and can also be quite soothing for hemorrhoids, or after childbirth, or for other problems in that area.”

“Just a… a basin, or something, then?”

“A basin in the bathtub is one possibility, and you can do it with just a regular tub and a few inches of water. However, the idea is to keep your legs out of the water, to encourage the blood to flow right where it’s needed. Given your back injuries, I doubt that the position would be easy for you -- or comfortable. I’d recommend a kit you can buy that fits onto a regular toilet. There are even inflatable ones, for greater comfort.”

“And I just… sit in it?

“That’s right. A good metric is three times a day, fifteen minutes or so each time. You’ll need to carefully sterilize the equipment after each use, so that the wound doesn’t get infected. But sitz baths can be remarkably effective pain relief, or so my patients tell me.”

Skeptical, Harold was on the edge of declining, when he recalled the fifth time John had gotten shot -- the first to be life-threatening -- and how stubbornly John had resisted the cushion that Harold had brought for him. Harold had known from experience that the cushion would help with back pain and reduce the overall discomfort of being seated too long, but John had… what? Not wanted to admit weakness, to needing a little help? Not wanted to try something weird?

Harold sighed. “I suppose I could give it a try.”

Tillman jotted that down. “I’m assuming you don’t need pamphlets, because you’re going to look this all up online, like last time? Because I could go and grab some pamphlets; it wouldn’t take long.”

“No, the search terms will be quite sufficient, thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, while writing some additional information. “It’s nice to have a patient who puts some effort into understanding the treatment options.”

“Well, research is one of my primary skills,” he admitted, allowing a little pride to show.

Her smile brightened for a moment before her face went somber. “The thing is, there’s nothing I could see that would be causing you significant pain, so--”

“Ah -- n-no, you wouldn’t,” he cut in, then licked his lips and looked away, debating how much to tell her. How much he could manage to put into words without shutting down again -- because this was far more than just his typical resistance to sharing information.

After a long moment in which he stayed silent, Tillman moved forward, kneeling in front of him, and laid a hand on his knee again; he didn’t startle as much this time, but met her gaze.

“Harold… you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I trust you, and I know you are careful with your pain management, and I also know that there are some things you can’t tell me. So I will give you the prescription even if you won’t tell me why. But I’m here to help you, Harold. I’m a resource. Even if you can’t open up to anyone else, I… if you need someone to listen to you, or give you advice, help you understand what’s happening, how to cope with it… even just someone to sit with you for a while without saying anything at all… I-I just… just, don’t try to get through this on your own. _Please_.”

Somewhere in the midst of that, her voice had shifted from a calm, gentle conveyance of information and trust, a mild entreaty, to something on the brink of tears. Almost without thinking, Harold reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand. This time, the thought of how personal this must be for her didn’t make him want to flee, but rather to comfort her. Conveying all the events of the night would hardly be a comfort, but a certain amount of detail, somewhat tailored, could help put her mind at ease.

Dropping his hand back to his lap, he started, slowly: “I have been up since four-thirty AM last night, and that, alone, would be enough to exacerbate my injuries, though not to this degree. But, in that time, I was” -- he swallowed -- “handled rather roughly by some insistent gentlemen who… transported me to an unexpected location; the ride was quite jarring. I sat on the edge of a bed for several hours, which was not very kind to my back, but I did not consider it safe enough to lie down and rest, and… I suppose I was being stubborn in not walking around a bit while I was waiting.

“And then… well… it wasn’t so much the, the act itself, as…” He closed his eyes, staving off sense-images of the rocking motion, the springs digging into his stomach, his hip… the way he’d almost instantly given up on finding some more comfortable position and just tried to relax into the pain, wait for it to be over. But trying to be more clear about what had happened would call attention to John’s involvement, and he wasn’t about to let that much slip. “There were… factors,” he concluded, finally; “more than just… being subjected to that. And, after it was over, I found that I-I couldn’t even bend over to, to pull up my trousers.” That admission made tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked rapidly, trying to focus on staying calm, sticking to the facts. “Since then, I’ve been in two vehicles, neither ride pleasant, and, between them, had to stand out in the cold for a good forty minutes or more.

“So, the fact of the matter is, the amount of pain I’m in has little to do with… with what I came here to be examined for. Nevertheless, it is… substantial. And if I’m to be functional in the morning, I can’t handle this without some level of medicinal intervention.” He paused. “And possibly a muscle relaxant, if you think it’s advisable.” There had been times, shortly after the surgeries, when muscle relaxants were the only factor that allowed him to push past the pain and actually get some sleep, sometimes for the first time in agonizing days. Now that he’d adjusted, gotten used to dealing with the level of pain that would never truly leave him, he didn’t usually seek them out -- but, in key instances, they could be invaluable.

“All right,” Tillman said, still kneeling there, but looking a little calmer; her eyes were still shiny with unshed tears. “Which factors are of most concern to you, as far as side effects? Last time, you said that you preferred to avoid possible addictive qualities--”

“Yes, if there’s a reasonable alternative… although, this time, I won’t be taking them for long. And I realize that muscle relaxants tend to cause drowsiness, but I’m not sure if I’ll be using them entirely for sleep or during the day as well.”

“Still no concerns about liver or kidney function?”

He shook his head, and winced as the movement twinged some part of his shoulder. “My use of medications is still low and infrequent, and I know enough not to take muscle relaxants with alcohol.”

“Good. And price isn’t a factor for you, if I recall? Because metaxalone is kinda pricey, but it has a relatively low incidence of side effects, and doesn’t cause as much drowsiness as other options.”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

Regaining her seat on the exam bed step, Tillman balanced the prescription tablet on her knee and scribbled for a moment. “You probably already know this, but codeine and muscle relaxants both cause sedation effects, so… wait, you wanted something stronger than codeine, right?”

“If you could.” By now, he was feeling a little floaty, and his urge to hurry up and get out of there was growing. But this was important, and he needed to see it through.

“Codeine is about a tenth as strong as morphine. You’re not to morphine level yet, right?”

He somehow managed a grin, even as he winced again. “No, not quite.”

“How about something twice as strong as codeine?”

“That sounds more like the right level, yes.”

She flipped the top sheet out of the way and poised her pen over the second. “Are you sensitive to caffeine?”

“Not that I’ve noticed; my favorite tea has a comparatively low dosage, but I drink quite a lot of it.” After Dillinger, he’d become far more cautious about sharing information on his choice of drinks (though John had plowed through that barrier almost immediately), but caffeine was still a drug, and hiding drug information from a doctor was a quick way to end up in the hospital -- his least favorite location.

Nodding, Tillman started to write. “I’m going to give you three days’ worth of dihydrocodeine. It usually comes with acetaminophen and caffeine included, but I’m giving you the kind without. You can take a dose of either regular or extra-strength Tylenol at the same time, if you feel like you need it, but see if taking it separately -- with the metaxalone -- is enough for you right now.”

He nodded.

“Don’t add any new drugs, even over-the-counter drugs, to this mix without running it by me. It’s a pretty strong treatment already. And… I believe we discussed fringe medicine before?”

“Yes. I don’t take any weird plants, or dabble in anything outside the bounds of modern medicine.” In the wake of his surgeries, desperate to find something that kept the pain at bay but still left his head clear, he’d started looking into alternatives… only to conclude that the evidence was against the claims in most instances, and he didn’t have time to hunt for the few that might actually be legitimate treatments. Since that point, he hadn’t given alternative medicine a second thought.

“No grapefruit juice--”

“Of course.”

“I’ll print out some notes on other foods that might interfere with drug metabolization. Watercress and starfruit juice, for example. Oh, and make sure that you take the dose with food; muscle relaxants have a much lower bioavailability when taken on an empty stomach.”

She went through a few more concerns, nothing particularly unusual, before finally helping him to his feet and, once he had steadied himself, handing him the prescription sheets. “The pharmacy’s not open at this time of night, but there’s a 24-hour pharmacy on--”

“I’m aware of it,” Harold cut in, stuffing the sheets into the pocket of his scrubs and trying not to let his impatience bleed through. The important parts -- the exam, the prescriptions, the information about why his brain was acting weird -- had already been handled, and his attention had been called back to one pressing question: whether John was still with Fusco.

Thankfully, Tillman picked up on his impatience anyway, and gave him a quick appraisal before heading for the door. “Would you like me to escort you back?” she asked, turning back toward him.

“That’s quite all right,” Harold said. “I’ve kept you from your duties long enough.”

“Please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if you need anything else, or if you notice any side effects that concern you.”

“Of course.”

“And please tell John I-- oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’d completely forgotten about John. Was he drugged? A blow to the head?”

“Nothing so dire… but, to tell the truth, I’m not entirely sure why he’s acting this way. It was a trying night for both of us, and, well, he seems to have” -- he bit his lip for a moment -- “checked out. It doesn’t seem to be physical, or, at least, not _primarily_ physical. But I know that’s not your area of expertise--”

Her brows drew together, eyes going wide. “Are you talking a dissociative state?”

“What?”

“Um, like… like the brain takes a vacation. You stop responding to outside stimuli in a normal way. It’s a response to trauma; you can feel like you’re watching things happen to someone else, get amnesia about the events, even invent a brand new identity in a different part of the brain. Some people just drop their whole life and disappear, end up in another city under a different name--”

Unable to wait for the rest of the explanation, he pushed frantically past her, his head already imagining John’s absence in the waiting room, Fusco’s cringing explanations, Harold’s own frantic attempts to locate his friend, his partner--

\--the hallway had been so short on the way in, but seemed far too long, now, and he barely felt the pain as he stretched to cover the ground more quickly than was strictly wise, but if John were gone--

\--if John were gone, he’d need to--

\--but then the chairs came into view around the corner, and John was there, still sitting there, obediently, with Fusco nearby. And, across from him, sprawled across the little sofa, positioned so she could watch both John and the corridor: Shaw.

The rush of relief that ran through Harold was so strong that it made him stumble, but Tillman caught him by the arm, and he looked up at her, grateful that she’d followed him.

Shaw regarded him appraisingly as they approached, and then got to her feet, her face a mask of mild annoyance more than any sort of concern. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Immeasurably. But…” He turned to Tillman, who was biting her lip as she looked John over without approaching him. “If… if that’s what’s going on… what sort of… care…?” Unsure how even to phrase his request, he shrugged at her, helplessly.

“Psychotherapy, sometimes medication,” she replied. “If it doesn’t go away on its own, because sometimes it does. If he’s safe, and with friends, it might be best to just wait and see if it resolves before trying anything more direct.” Her brows drew together again. “Be aware that he might respond in a way that’s completely unlike him… or hurt himself without realizing it, because he might not feel pain or be able to accurately judge the consequences of his actions.”

“So, what, like sleepwalking?” Fusco chimed in. “Is that what this is?”

“That might be one way to look at it. He might wake up tomorrow and be just fine. Or missing memories, but otherwise quite normal. Or maybe he’ll be like this for a while -- it’s not exactly predictable. It’s a way for the brain to run away from something it can’t deal with.”

Shaw raised an eyebrow while looking John over. “I can’t wait to hear what happened to you guys tonight,” she said, her voice flat. “I go off the grid for a few hours and you two can’t help but raise trouble. Can we get out of here now?”

“Did you drive here?” Harold asked, picking up on the scent of cheap tequila.

She leveled her gaze at him. “After fourteen calls in two hours, you think I’m gonna wait for a cab?”

Harold huffed. “Well. I suppose we’re lucky that the good detective was sober enough to operate a vehicle when we needed it.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he thought they were a little too harsh to level at Shaw right now, but he she merely looked him over.

“Don’t tell me I rushed over here for nothing, Harold.”

“Oh, you’ll be coming along, Miss Shaw,” Harold asserted, hoping she wouldn’t fight him on this, “because we do indeed need you -- but I’m not about to let you drive right now. I can send a driver to pick up your car,” he added at the glower on her face.

“If you’ve got drivers you can call in at four A.M.--”

“Hey,” Fusco broke in roughly, and then paused. “I don’t even know you well enough to coin a nickname, Shaw, but would you _stop?_ While you been drinking your ass off, these two have been… I don’t know the details, but it got _bad_ , all right? Bad enough for Glasses to see the doc for once in his crazy life, and I’m taking a wild guess that he don’t show that kinda weakness to his hired staff. _Lay off_.”

Harold very nearly laughed; while Fusco was technically correct, it wasn’t like he cared to show weakness to _Fusco_ , either -- or to anyone else. Calling a friend instead of an employee had been less an act of caution and more stemming from the kind of narrowed options that the brain resorts to under stress; thinking back, he hadn’t even stopped to consider that he had drivers on retainer. But then, Fusco was right in another way: Harold would hardly have called out his personal chauffeur for this, not unless there were no other options. If nothing else, he needed to maintain the credibility of the aliases that used a chauffeur, none of whom would have found themselves abandoned in a parking lot in the middle of the night, let alone with a bloodstained suit.

_Not bloodstained_ , he reminded himself. Or, at least, not so as to be visible from the outside.

Which just brought him back to the awareness of his scrubs, and his lack of undergarments, and his bone-deep desire to just get out of here and go home. The library or a safe house, he didn’t even care, but someplace where he could be assured of good defenses, privacy, and a certain level of comfort.

Shaw was regarding Fusco calmly, unruffled by his bluster, but Harold didn’t care to let them continue. Turning to Tillman, he said, “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor. I suppose I’ll send you an email address for the rest of the information; my friends and I should probably get out of here.”

With a nod, Tillman departed, evidently deciding that butting into a mix she wasn’t familiar with wasn’t likely to help her patient get out of there any sooner. But she looked relieved more than worried, and Harold took that as a good sign. He turned to John.

“John,” Harold said sharply, “it’s time to go.”

As John got up and stood there, swaying, Shaw looked at him incredulously; Harold ignored her.

“Detective, if we could impose upon you to drop us off at my home?”

Fusco snorted, perhaps at the notion that Harold would let him anywhere near his actual home -- or possibly at the notion that such a place even existed. But he nodded, and headed off toward the elevators.

When Harold followed, John lumbered along behind. Shaw’s footsteps took up the rear, which gave Harold pause; she was normally as quiet as a cat, even in sharp heels, but then he reflected that she _had_ been drinking, and might be slightly less coordinated than her norm.

That, or she was deliberately acting outside her norm just to see if it got a rise out of John. As if John were faking it and she could trick him into revealing himself.

Harold could almost wish that were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Content Warnings:**  
>  A few anecdotes and stories get passed around. Some details include: a kid getting knocked into barbed wire (because a horse kicked her), which did ER-level damage, although kid was afterward fine. A woman living in a post-apocalyptic world, but being insane enough to think it's the normal world; also, dead bodies. "Flying teeth monsters" as Harold terms them (from a Stephen King movie); existential horror; stabbing people (just the bare mention, no detail).
> 
> Yet another reminiscence on getting kidnapped by Root, and the PTSD that followed. Strong negative reaction to unexpected touch. A flashback to the rape. Humiliation over being less physically capable than he would like to be, and at another point because he feels naked even though he's not.
> 
> Discussion of dissociation. I've researched it but have no idea if I'm reasonably close or not; feel free to tell me in the comments my portrayal rings false in any specific way.
> 
> Harold and Tillman both casually refer to insanity (in dialog and in internal narration) and discuss insane fictional characters. Tillman is doing her best to calm Harold down and help him understand that his brain acting weird _is normal_ after an abnormal circumstance; I'm sure if she were dealing with a person with known mental issues, she would be more careful with her wording and choice of anecdotes.

**Author's Note:**

>  **February 2018:** Hoo boy.
> 
> Year's starting off well, but I'm not getting my writing done as steadily as I had hoped. Partly because of the effort it takes to keep up on my YouTube content. I'm hoping to get more into the swing of things as the early part of the year progresses.
> 
> I've lost track of which series are open, but there's like at least eight of them, not counting special works like _Five Fans_. I do still plan to complete all of them; none have been abandoned. I just flit around between projects like a madcap butterfly.
> 
> It's still kinda funny how I planned to only ever have three series open, because I knew opening too many of them would just cause trouble. Ah, well. On top of these, I've got more planned for _The Many Kidnappings of Harold P. Finch_ , and I've got the first POI fic I ever penned still waiting to be released, although I don't intend to put it up until I've closed off at least a couple of these guys. _And_ I actually have some fics planned in other fandoms (most notably, _Slayers_ ), but no idea when/if I'm ever gonna get those penned.  
>  
> 
> On the up side, Alara J Rogers did finally publish the first part of the fic I'm funding (well, for Patreon preview or whatever; dunno when it'll be out in the open). It's a crossover between _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ and Disney's _Aladdin_ … to the extent that the genie-hunting Mukhtar has been borrowed as a character, a bounty hunter hired to capture human!Q. I figure, if the Mukhtar can use magical tricks to capture genies, he can use sci-fi tricks to capture Q. So the fact that this fic exists now is due to me and the crazy ways my brain fits things together =^_^=


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